They set about skinning the loup-cervier, and spread the pelt upon the floor for a robe.
"We'll have to tackle the cat for breakfast," grinned Bill.
"Oh, this is fun!" cried the boy. "It's like getting cast away and living in a cave, like you read about." But the humor of the situation failed to enthuse Bill, who lighted his pipe and stared moodily into the tiny fire.
The two spent a most uncomfortable night, their brief snatches of sleep being interrupted by long hours of wakefulness when they huddled close to the small blaze.
The scarcity of wood and the danger of suffocation precluded the building of an adequate fire, and the miserable night wore interminably upon the nerves of the imprisoned pair.
At last the dull gray light of morning dispersed the gloom, and the two crept to the snow-choked door.
The storm raged unabated, and their eyes could not penetrate the opaque whiteness of the powdery snow. Bill gathered more firewood, cut up the lynx, and roasted the hams, shoulders, and back.
The meat was dry and stringy, with a disagreeable, strong flavor that savored intimately of the rancid odor of the den. Nevertheless, they devoured a great quantity of the tough, unpalatable food, washing it down with bitter drafts from the pool of dirty snow-water, thick with ashes and the pungent animal reek.
Again the man filled his pipe and sat gazing out upon the whirling void.
"Bill, let's try it," said a voice at his elbow. "She's waiting for us—and worrying."