“I presume”—in cold sarcasm—“there’s no reason why we shouldn’t breakfast, since it’s after ten.”
“None at all,” Uncle Bill answered easily, “except we’re out of grub.”
“What!”
“I explained that to you four days ago, but you said you’d got to get a sheep. I thought I could eat snowballs as long as you could. But I didn’t look for such a storm as this.”
“There’s nothing?” demanded Sprudell, aghast.
“Oh, yes, there’s somethin’,” grimly. “I kin take the ax and break up a couple of them doughnuts and bile the coffee grounds again. To-night we’ll gorge ourselves on a can of froze tomatoes, though I hates to eat so hearty and go right to bed. There’s a pint of beans, too, that by cookin’ steady in this altitude ought to be done by spring. We’d ’a’ had that sheep meat, only it blowed out of the tree last night and somethin’ drug it off. Here’s your doughnut.”
Mr. Sprudell snatched eagerly at it and retired under the covers, where a loud scrunching told of his efforts to masticate the frozen tidbit.
“Can you eat a little somethin’, Toy? Is your rheumatiz a-hurtin’ pretty bad?”
“Hiyu lumatiz,” a faint voice answered, “plitty bad.”
The look of gravity on the man’s face deepened as he stood rubbing his hands over the red-hot stove, which gave out little or no heat in the intense cold.