“God bless you for all you have done,” cried Abel, catching at the big fellow’s hand. “I couldn’t hold out any longer.”
“Of course you couldn’t. Why, your pluck was splendid.”
“Thank him, Dal,” cried Abel. “He has saved my life.”
“Yah! Fudge! Gammon! Stuff! We don’t want no thanking. You two lads would have done the same. We don’t want to be preached at. Tommy Bruff, my son, what do you say to a fire, setting the billy to boil, and a bit o’ brax’uss?”
“Same as you do, laddie. Cup o’ tea’ll be about the right thing for these two.”
There was plenty of scrub pine at hand, swept down by the snow-fall, and sticking out here and there. Axes were got to work, and soon after the two sufferers were seated, covered with fur-lined coats, and revelling in the glow of the fire, over which a big tin was steaming, while their new friends were busy bringing out cake, bread, tea, and bacon from their store in the partly unpacked sledge.
The big, bearded Cornishman had started a black pipe, and while his companions replenished the fire and prepared for the meal, he sat on a doubled-up piece of tarpaulin, and wiped, dried, and polished picks, shovels, and axes ready for repacking. Every now and then he paused to smile a big, happy, innocent-looking smile at the two who had been rescued, just as if he thoroughly enjoyed what had been done, and then, suddenly dropping the axe he was finishing, caught up a little measure of dry tea, and shouting, “There, she boils!” tossed it into the tin over the fire, lifted it off, and set it aside, and then laid the freshly polished tools on the sledge.
Soon after, refreshed by the tins of hot tea, the rescued pair were able to give an account of their adventures, the new-comers listening eagerly and making their comments.
“Ho!” said the big Cornishman, frowning. “I expected we should come across some rough ’uns, but I didn’t think it was going to be so bad as that. Scared, mates?”
“No,” said one of his companions; “not yet.”