“Cil!”
“Hullo!” drowsily.
“Don’t go to sleep, old chap; I want to talk to you.”
“I can’t go to sleep if you talk. What is it?”
“I say, how rum it seems for it to be boiling hot down here, and all that ice and snow to be up there. Look.”
“Yes,” said Cyril, “’tis its nature to. I don’t want to look. Seen it before.”
“But how far is it up to where the snow is—a thousand feet?”
“What?” cried Cyril, starting up into a sitting position, with his hat falling off.
“I said how far is it up to where the snow is?”
“I know you did,” cried the boy, laughing, “and you said, was it a thousand feet?”