"I think the lake of brimstone'd be a pleasant change from this," snorted Shorty.
CHAPTER VII. AFTER THE FIRST DAY
THE DISCOMFORTS OF THAT LAST NIGHT OF 1862.
IT WAS so desperately cold and comfortless that Si and Shorty felt that they must do something or perish.
There were some fragments of cracker-boxes near. With these they dug a hole several inches deep, put some splinters in, and started a stealthy blaze. They were careful to sit on the side toward the rebels, the better to hide from them any sight of it. It was a very small fire, but there was more relief in it than Si had before gotten from those a thousand times larger. It kept his unshod foot from freezing, and brought the blood back to his numb hands.
"Just think, Shorty," said Si; "night before last we had a whole panel of fence on the fire, and all our blankets and overcoats, and yet you kicked. I believe this is a judgment on you for not being thankful for what you receive."
"Judgment be blowed," ejaculated Shorty. "This ain't no judgment; it's just durned luck that is, what isn't foolishness in sendin' a boy to mill. If we'd had only half as many men out there in the cedars as the rebels had we'd licked thunder out of 'em. We simply couldn't whip four or five to one. McCook didn't size up his job right."
"Well, we have something to be thankful for," said Si, determined to see the bright side of things. "Neither of us got hurt, which is a blessing."
"Don't know whether it is or not. If we are goin' to freeze to death before mornin' I'd rather've bin shot the first volley."