The other two awoke, groaning with the pain of stiffened muscles and the pain of rousing from the sleep of exhaustion.
“What time is it?” Stine asked.
“Half-past eight.”
“It's dark yet,” was the objection.
Shorty jerked out a couple of guy-ropes, and the tent began to sag.
“It's not morning,” he said. “It's evening. Come on. The lake's freezin'. We got to get acrost.”
Stine sat up, his face bitter and wrathful. “Let it freeze. We're not going to stir.”
“All right,” said Shorty. “We're goin' on with the boat.”
“You were engaged—”
“To take your outfit to Dawson,” Shorty caught him up. “Well, we're takin' it, ain't we?” He punctuated his query by bringing half the tent down on top of them.