“Gone”—mournfully—“where the woodbine twineth.”
“And my trousers?”
“Where the wangdoodle mourneth fer his lost love. Blowed off. I got your union suit out’n the top of a pine tree. You’ve no more pants than a rabbit, feller. Everything went when the guy-ropes busted—I warned you to sleep in your clothes.”
“But what’ll I do?” Sprudell quavered.
“Nothin’.” His tone was as dry as punk. “You kin jest as well die in them pink pajammers as anything else.”
“Huh?” excitedly. The mound began to heave.
“I say we’re in for it. There’s a feel in the air like what the Injuns call ‘The White Death.’ It hurt my lungs like I was breathin’ darnin’ needles when I cut this wood. The drifts is ten feet high and gittin’ higher.” Laconically: “The horses have quit us; we’re afoot.”
“Is that so? Well, we’ve got to get out of here—I refuse to put in another such night. Lie still!” he commanded ferociously. “You’re letting in a lot of cold air. Quit rampin’ round!” From which it may be gathered that Mr. Sprudell, for purposes of warmth and protection, was sleeping with the Chinese cook.
“Three in a bed is crowded,” Uncle Bill admitted, with a grin. “To-night you might try settin’ up.”
A head of tousled white hair appeared above the edge of the blankets, then a pair of gleaming eyes. “I propose to get out of here to-day,” Mr. Sprudell announced, with hauteur.