"It's pup-precious kik-kik-cold," said Russell, his teeth chattering, partly from cold and partly from terror. "This'll bring on an attack of rheumatiz—that's what it's going to do. Oh, I know it!"
"Well, it a little chilly, that's a fact," said Harry, shrugging his shoulders. "It's a pity we couldn't use that fireplace. But what a tremendous fireplace it is! Why, it's as big as a barn. What do you say to our amusing ourselves by starting a fire? It would be great fun."
"But we've gig-gig-got no fuel," said Russell, with a shiver.
"Fuel? Why, let's cut up that big bench."
"What with?"
"Why, with my pocket-knife, of course. We could whittle enough chips off it to make a good big fire, and still have enough left for a bench. In fact, we could get enough fuel off that for a dozen fires. Why, man, there must be at least a cord of wood in that bench. Whittling's rather slow work, it's true, but in a place like this it'll be an occupation, and that's something. Prisoners go mad unless they have something to do; and so, just to save myself from madness, I mean to go in for fuel—unless you can think of something else that's better."
Rattling out this in his usual lively fashion, Harry went to the bench, and began a solemn examination of it, with a view toward whittling it up into firewood. Russell did not move, but regarded Harry with the same silent misery in his face. At last he spoke:
"What did-did-do you think they're a-going to did-did-do?"
"Who?" asked Harry.
"Why, these people—that kik-kik-captured us."