“Doubtful,” was the reply.
Soon after, Dallas, with a sack fastened across one shoulder like a scarf, and his gun over his shoulder, opened the door. “Cheer up, old chap!” he cried. “I shan’t be long,” and forcing his way out, he closed the door, plunged forward, and struggled waist deep through the snow which had drifted up against the hut.
Farther on it lay less heavy, and pausing for a few moments to take a look round beneath the starlit sky, he made his way along the border of the creek—carefully on the look-out for pine-stumps, the remains of the dense scrub which had been cut down by the gold-seekers—in the direction of one of the lights dotting the creek here and there, those nearest being lanterns, but farther on a couple of fires were burning.
“Morning, mate,” said a cheery voice, as he came upon two men busily shovelling snow from a pit beneath a rough shelter of poles, while a hut was close by. “You’ve got plenty of this, I s’pose?”
“Nearly buried. I say, we’re awfully short of meal and bacon. Can you sell us some?”
The two men leaned on their shovels.
“We’re so desp’rate low ourselves, mate,” said the one who had not spoken. “We don’t like to say no. But look here, go and try round the camp and see what you can do. Some of them’s a deal better off than we are. Get it of them. If you can’t, come back here and we’ll do what we can. Eh, mate?”
“Of course,” came in a growl; “but no humbug, Mr Adams.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, this. When it comes to eating we, as it says in the song, you must play fair and draw lots with the rest of us.”