The first intimation the travellers had of the impending storm was the rending of a limb of the tree under which they reposed. The way in which Oliver Trench received the rude awakening might, in other circumstances, have raised a laugh, for he leaped up like a harlequin, with a glare of sudden amazement, and, plunging headlong away from the threatened danger, buried himself in the snow. From this he instantly emerged with an aspect similar to that of “Father Christmas,” minus the good-natured serenity of that liberal-hearted personage.
“Daddy!” he gasped, “are you there?”
The question was not uncalled for, the captain having made a plunge like that of his son, but unlike his son, having found it difficult to extricate himself quickly.
Paul and Hendrick had also sprung up, but the latter, remaining close to the stem of the tree, kept his eye watchfully on the branches.
“Come here—quick!” he cried—“the stem is our safeguard. Look out!”
As he spoke his voice was drowned in a crash which mingled with the shrieking blast, and a great branch fell to the ground. Fortunately the wind blew it sufficiently to one side to clear the camp. The air was so charged with snow particles that the captain and his son seemed to stagger out of a white mist as they returned to their comrades who were clinging to the weather-side of the tree.
“D’ye think it will go by the board?” asked the captain, as he observed Hendrick’s anxious gaze fixed on the swaying tree.
“It is a good stout stick,” replied his friend, “but the blast is powerful.”
The captain looked up at the thick stem with a doubtful expression, and then turned to Hendrick with a nautical shake of the head.
“I never saw a stick,” he said, “that would stand the like o’ that without fore an’ back stays, but it may be that shoregoin’ sticks are—”