“Tie up your wound?”
“No, no. Help me try and dig our way out.”
“I think so. My head feels a bit light, but it’s my throat that is bad—all swollen up so that I can only whisper.”
“Never mind your throat so long as you can use your arms.”
“Think we can dig our way out?”
Dallas uttered a little laugh.
“Why not?” he said. “There is a pick and shovel on my sledge.”
“Ah, yes, and on mine too.”
“We were out of heart last night,” continued Dallas, encouragingly, “and in the scare thought we were done for. But we can breathe; we shall not suffer for want of food; the melted snow will give us drink; and once we can determine which way to dig, what is to prevent our finding our way to daylight again?”
“Our position,” said Abel, in his faint whisper. “Where are we to put the snow we dig out?”