Dallas was silent for a few moments.
“Yes,” he said at last; “that will be a difficulty, for we must not fill up this place. But never mind that for the present. We must eat and drink now, for we shall want all our strength. Pressed snow is almost like ice. Ah, here is the sledge—mine or yours. My head is too thick to tell which. Bel, lad, we are going to dig our way out, if it takes us a month.”
“Yes,” came rather more strongly; and the next minute Dallas Adams was feeling about the sledge for the tin which held the traveller’s food.
It was hard work fumbling there in the dark, for parts of the sledge were pressed and wedged down by snow that was nearly as hard as ice; but others were looser, and by degrees he managed to get part of the tin free, when he started, for something touched his arm.
“Can I help you, Dal?”
“How you made me jump, lad! I don’t know. Feel strong enough?”
“I think so; but I want to work. It’s horrible lying there fancying the top of this hole is going to crumble down every time you move some of the snow.”
“Lay hold here, then, and let’s try and drag this tin out.”
They took hold of it as well as their cramped position would allow, and tugged and tugged, feeling the tin case bend and grow more and more out of shape; but it would not come.
“No good,” said Dallas. “I’ll cut through the tin with my knife.”