“What’s wrong, Max?” growled my companion, who lay curled up in his buffalo robe, like a huge Newfoundland dog. “Bin dreamin’?”
“Yes,” said I, with a loud yawn, “I was dreaming of shovelling up diamonds by the thousand when a lump of snow fell and hit my nose!”
“Str’nge,” sighed Lumley, in the sleepiest voice I ever heard, “so’s I—dr’m’n ’f g’ld’n sass–gs an’ dm’nd rupple-ply.”
“What nonsense are you talking, man? What were you dreaming of?”
“’F gold’n saus’ges an’ dim’nd rolly-p’ly. I say—’s fire out?”
“Nearly.”
“’S very cold. G’t up—mend it, l’ke good f’llow. I’ll help you, d’rectly.”
He finished off with a prolonged snore, so I rose with a slight laugh, mended the fire, warmed myself well, observed in a sleepy way that the night was still bright and calm, and then lay down in a state of semi-consciousness to drop at once into a nest made of golden filigree filled with diamond eggs!
Next morning we rose at daybreak, relighted the fire and had breakfast, after which we resumed our search, but still—without success.
“I fear that my surmise as to the state of poor Liston’s mind is correct,” said Lumley. “We have searched the whole valley, I believe.”