"Where's Tom Land?"
"Here I is!"
"I say, Tom—Long George gives any man leave t' beat un black an' blue!"
And a laugh at that.
"Mind the blow-holes!"
"An a man gets wet, he'll freeze solid."
"No sleep!"
"Keep movin'!"
They kept moving to keep warm. And even they larked. Tag, whilst they could see to chase—and a sad leap-frog. And they wrestled and scuffled until it was black dark and the heart went out of them all. And then they wandered, with no lee to shelter them—a hundred and seventy-three men, stamping and stumbling in the wind, clinging to life, hour after hour, and waiting for the dawn, bitten by frost and near stifled by snow. It was gnawing cold. Twelve below—it was afterwards said. And that's bitter weather. It bit through to the bones and heart. And what they wore to withstand it—no great-coats, to hamper the kill, but only jackets and caps and mitts.