A few minutes later they found the sledge, and as they were about to start, Dallas kicked against something hard, which went spinning along the ice-covered snow.
“What’s that?” he said. “Why, Tregelly, it must be your pipe.”
“Yes. It struck against me,” cried Abel. “Here it is,” he added in triumph.
“Hooroar!” cried Tregelly. “Now, I call that fine, my sons. Why, if old Scruff comes back and says he’s killed Master Redbeard, this’ll be about as pleasant a time as I ever spent. But how’s your arm, Master Dallas?”
“Smarts, and feels wretched and numb, that’s all. I can help pull the sledge.”
“All right, my son,” cried Tregelly, giving the line a jerk; but in vain, for the sledge was immovable, the runners being frozen to the surface of the snow. “I say; think o’ that.”
Dallas and Abel gave the sledge a wrench, set it at liberty, and it glided smoothly on, Tregelly insisting on dragging it all the way back to the hut, where they shut themselves in, and then prepared an early breakfast; but before it was ready there was a familiar thump on the rough door, and Scruff was admitted, apparently free from fresh injuries, for he gave all an intelligent look, and then seated himself by the fire to lick his wound, before curling up and going to sleep.
“I wish I could do that,” said Dallas.
“Do it without the curl,” said Tregelly, smiling. “It’s the best thing for a man who has had such a shake as you have.”
“No, no. The ruffian may come back.”