VI
STORM-BOUND
Wayland was awakened by the mellow voice of his chief calling: “All out! All out! Daylight down the creek!” Breathing a prayer of thankfulness, the boy sat up and looked about him. “The long night is over at last, and I am alive!” he said, and congratulated himself.
He drew on his shoes and, stiff and shivering, stood about in helpless misery, while McFarlane kicked the scattered, charred logs together, and fanned the embers into a blaze with his hat. It was heartening to see the flames leap up, flinging wide their gorgeous banners of heat and light, and in their glow the tenderfoot ranger rapidly recovered his courage, though his teeth still chattered and the forest was dark.
“How did you sleep?” asked the Supervisor.
“First rate—at least during the latter part of the night,” Wayland briskly lied.
“That’s good. I was afraid that Adirondack bed of yours might let the white wolf in.”
“My blankets did seem a trifle thin,” confessed Norcross.
“It don’t pay to sleep cold,” the Supervisor went on. “A man wants to wake up refreshed, not tired out with fighting the night wind and frost. I always carry a good bed.”