"Sur-re, they's a star-rm brewin'—th' soigns is roight, an' th' fale av ut's in th' air. Wan day, or two, an' she'll br-reak, beloike, on th' tur-rn av th' moon. Phwin she thickens up, th' Injuns'll hit f'r th' igloos as fasht as their legs'll carry thim, an' not a nose'll they shtick outsoide till ut quits shnowin'. F'r they've a fear in their hear-rts f'r th' star-rm, an' they've no shtummick f'r to be ketched out in ut——"
"Them, an' me—both!" interrupted Waseche Bill.
"Ahroo! Now, come on! Ut's f'r their own good we're doin' ut. Oi know th' fur-rst fifteen er me'be ut's twinty moiles av th' thrail to th' Kandik. We'll wor-rk ut loike this: They know they's a star-rm comin'—Oi seen a little knot av um on th' edge av th' clift a jabberin' an' p'intin' into th' Narth. We'll let um see us fetchin' wood into th' moine, loike we wuz gittin' ridy to hole up f'r th' star-rm. Th' sleds we'll load jist insoide th' mouth av th' tunnel, an' phwin they hit f'r th' village we'll har-rness th' dogs an' shlip up th' rayvine, an' out achrost th' bench. They's a bit av a mountain out yondher, me'be ut's tin moiles, an' on th' soide av ut we c'n camp snug in th' scr-rub, till th' shnow quits. Our tr-racks'll be burried, an' ut'll be a couple av days befoor they foind out we're gone, an' be th' toime they've picked up our thrail, we'll be out av their raych—f'r they'll venture not far-r to th' west, havin' fear-r av phwat lies beyant."
O'Brien finished, and Waseche turned to Connie:
"What do yo' say, son?" he asked. "Shall we try it? It ain't a goin' to be no snap, out theah on the white bench with the snow an' th' roahin' wind. It's a funny thing—this heah takin' a long chanst jes' to keep a gang of Injuns from hahmin' us so we won't hahm them."
"They divoided their grub," repeated O'Brien, with an appealing glance at the boy.
"And, for that, we'll take a chance!" answered Connie. "We're game."
Breakfast over, the following morning, the three busied themselves in cutting firewood and carrying it into the tunnel. Indians appeared here and there among the rim-rocks and, after watching for a time, departed in the direction of the village. By noon, the weather had thickened perceptibly. A thin grey haze filled the atmosphere through which the weak rays of the Arctic sun filtered feebly. There was no wind, and the air lost its invigorating crispness and clung heavily about them like a wet garment. No more Indians appeared upon the edges of the cliffs and Waseche Bill ventured upon a scouting expedition up the narrow ravine, while Connie and O'Brien remained behind to pack the sleds and carry an occasional armful of firewood for the benefit of any lingering observer.