"What is the matter?" Hawke asked. "You seem pleased."
"I am," he replied. "It is the brandy warming me through the cork."
Hawke laughed. "It wasn't a bad suggestion, was it?"
"It was the best I ever heard from you."
Hawke found his knife and held it out to Gordon, saying--
"You had better do it! My fingers are so cursedly numbed, I should only cut myself or drop the bottle."
Gordon took the knife with his right hand, and Hawke exclaimed--
"What on earth have you done to your hand? It is covered with blood."
"Oh, it's nothing," Gordon answered quickly. "I cut it on a pointed piece of rock, that's all."
For a moment he stood with the bottle poised in one hand and the knife in the other, thinking. Then he said--