They had not spoken to each other for many days—or was it only hours?—when the Colonel, looking at the Boy, said:
"You've got to have a face-guard. Those frostbites are eating in."
"'Xpect so."
"You ought to stop it. Make a guard."
"Out of a snow-ball, or chunk o' ice?"
"Cut a piece out o' the canvas o' the bag." But he didn't.
The big sores seemed such small matters beside the vast overshadowing doubt, Shall we come out of this alive?—doubt never to be openly admitted by him, but always knocking, knocking——
"You can't see your own face," the Colonel persisted.
"One piece o' luck, anyhow."
The old habit of looking after the Boy died hard. The Colonel hesitated. For the last time he would remonstrate. "I used to think frostbite was a figure o' speech," said he, "but the teeth were set in your face, sonny, and they've bitten deep; they'll leave awful scars."