“Well, the supply is not great, but there is a morsel of bacon and a frozen leg-bone of our share of the moose, whose roasted marrow will be delicious. No; the larder is not well stocked, but the supply of fuel is unlimited, and we have our gigantic bag of gold in the bank cellar.”
“Curse the gold!”
“No, I will not do that, my dear boy, because, you see, I can take out a handful, tramp down to the store, and come back laden with corn and wine and delicacies in the shape of bacon and tinned meat.”
“Dal, it’s of no use; we must give up and go back.”
“No, we must not, old chap; and even if I said the same, we couldn’t get away this winter time.”
“You could. I’m doomed—I’m doomed!”
“Here, I say,” cried Dallas, “don’t begin making quotations.”
“Quotations?”
“Yes; that’s what the despairing old chap says in Byron’s comedy, ‘I’m doomed—I’m doomed!’ and the other fellow says, ‘Don’t go on like that; it sounds like swearing when it ain’t.’”
“Dal,” cried Abel passionately, “how can you be so full of folly when we are in such a desperate state?”