The long hours of that day dragged somehow, and the next. When the third day dawned, the tent was buried nearly to the ridgepole under snow. Outside, the storm was roaring with unabated fury, and Uncle Bill’s emergency supply of wood was almost gone. He crept from under the blankets and boiled some water, making a few tasteless pancakes with a teacupful of flour.
Sprudell sat up suddenly and said, with savage energy:
“Look here—I’ll give you a thousand dollars to get me out of this!”
Uncle Bill looked at him curiously. A thousand dollars! Wasn’t that like a dude? Dudes thought money could do anything, buy anything.
Uncle Bill would rather have had a sack of flour just then than all the money Sprudell owned.
“Your check’s no more good than a bunch of dried leaves. It’s endurance that’s countin’ from now on. We’re up against it right, I tell you, with Toy down sick and all.”
Sprudell stared.
“Toy?” Was that why Griswold would not leave? “What’s Toy got to do with it?” he demanded.
It was the old man’s turn to stare.