“’Good riddance to bad rubbish,’” said Ferguson. “We don’t want any such croakers at our feast; which, by the way, reminds me of breakfast.”
“Whew!” exclaimed Harvey. “It’s cold!”
Indeed it was cold for these travellers from the warm coast-belt, the mercury standing at about thirty-five degrees Fahrenheit.
“Let’s run and get wood for a fire, then we’ll feel warmer,” said Hope-Jones. “There’s a dwarf tree over there. Surely some dry branches are beneath it. Now for a two hundred yards’ dash! One! two! three!”
Ferguson won, Hope-Jones second, and Harvey a close third. The run started their blood well in circulation, and they fell to gathering chips of bark and dried twigs with a will, returning to the tent each with an armful. They placed four stones equidistant from a centre, so that a few inches were between them, and in the spaces piled the wood.
“Be careful with the matches!” said Ferguson. “Only one for a fire. Harvey, take from your box first.”
The boy stooped over and the two young men stood to the windward of him, forming a shield. In a few seconds a crackle was heard, then a thin line of blue smoke rose from between the stones, and tongues of flame licked the pieces of granite.
“More wood!”
It was added, and in a minute a merry blaze was burning briskly.
They held their hands over the flames, and they stood on the leeward side, not minding the smoke which blew in their eyes, for the heat was carried to their bodies, dispelling the chill that had come after the run. Although the morning was somewhat warmer than had been the evening before, it was still very cold for these residents of the sandy coast-line. Here and there patches of snow still lay on the ground, but the white crystals were fast melting under the glow of coming day. The sun was not so tardy here as at Chicla, for no high peaks were in the east, and even as they stood around the fire a shaft of light was thrown across the valley in which they had rested during the night.