“It sure is, pard,” Buckhart agreed. “That woodshed was like an ice house.”
Fitzgerald had dragged a sofa up to one side of the blaze and sprawled full length on it.
“I tell you, fellows, we’ll want to put in the night right here,” he remarked. “I hate to think of leaving this lovely warm spot and crawling in between icy sheets.”
“Humph!” snorted the Texan. “How about that mattress you were making such a time about a while back?”
The slim chap patted the stuffed couch appreciatively.
“This is as good as any mattress,” he retorted.
“Where do we come in?” demanded McCormick. “I suppose we can sit up all night on plain chairs.”
Buckhart’s mouth drew down into a firm line.
“Nix on that!” he said emphatically. “No breaking away from the bunch. When we go to bed, little Fitzy will toddle along, too, if I have to tuck him in myself.”
Fitzgerald lay back comfortably, his eyes fixed dreamily on the dancing flames.