I felt his game pockets. "One, two—oh, three! I didn't hear you shoot except twice. Well"—I was stamping and flinging my arms around myself in the endeavor to thaw out—"I think they're very well off: they're bound for a warm oven."
"Cold? Thunder! I ought to have left you the bottle. Here!"
I took it and gulped, protesting: "Detestable stuff! Wait, I'll take some more."
"This from you! You must be cold! Come on! Run! Look out for the little ditches! Jump where I do."
We started stiffly enough, in the teeth of the big, dark wind, till the motion, and the bottle, began to take effect. A haymow loomed. We flung ourselves, panting, against it, and, sinking back into its yielding bulk, drew long breaths.
"Did we think it was cold?" I murmured; "or windy?"
We were on the leeward side of it, and it gave generous shelter. The wind sighed gently over the top of the mow, breathed past its sides, never touching us, and we gazed up at the stars.
"The sky is fairly gray with them," I said.
"Perhaps," said Jonathan lazily, "it's that bottle, making you see ten stars grow where one grew before."
"Perhaps," I suggested, choosing to ignore this speech, "it's the wind, blowing the stars around and raising star-dust."