“Why have you opened the door?” he asked drowsily, and got up with a jerk as the draught swept the smoke about the room.
“A Chinook!” he exclaimed, and ran to the door. “We'll have rain and warmth while it blows.”
“It's great!” said Charnock hoarsely. “We are through the worst!” Then he caught Festing's arm and laughed. “Say something wise, partner; I want to shout and dance.”
“You had better go to bed. It will be thawing hard to-morrow, and there's much to be done. A Chinook doesn't last long in the mountains.”
“This Chinook is going to last until we put the rails down,” Charnock replied.
CHAPTER XXV
THE THAW
When Festing went out at daybreak the air was soft, and drops from the wet pines fell into the honeycombed snow. The surface was turning to slush, but he knew it would wear down into a slippery mass on which the logs would run. This was fortunate, because he doubted if labor could be usefully employed upon the stones just yet. For a few moments he pondered the matter and listened to the river's turmoil. The deep, booming note was sharper, water splashed noisily in the gullies, and there was a ringing crash as an ice-floe broke upon a rock. Then he turned as Charnock came up.
“Which is it—logs or stones?” the latter asked.