Bill got a stool and came down and sat on the other side of the fireplace and they smoked in silence for some time. Finally Mike said:
"No one will try to break through to us."
"Some of us got to git through to them," said Bill. "That's about the size of it."
"I've only been waitin' for the storm to let up a bit," said the Irishman.
"Gosh, it may keep this up for a month of Sundays. No use waitin' any longer. I think it's a dyin' down some. I'm fer a try at it."
"You?" said Mike with incredulity. "Git out. That's my job. You with your rheumatiz? You ain't any longer young, Bill. Better leave it to me."
Both Bill and McShay had reached the age when it is impossible to take advice. Each went about his preparations while the argument continued.
"You can go if you like," Bill suggested; "but I'm agoin'."
"Ain't you old fellers vain?" protested Mike. "You'll only be a nuisance to me. Better stay."
"Old fellers, eh? Say, you needn't be afraid. If I can't pull you through I won't run away from you. I'll bring you back."