any life left in the horse, it'll soon be smothered out
unless we set him free."
The men needed no urging, however. They worked
as if their lives depended on their exertions. Dick
Varley, in particular, laboured like a young Hercules,
and Henri hurled masses of snow about in a most surprising
manner. Crusoe, too, entered heartily into the
spirit of the work, and, scraping with his forepaws,
sent such a continuous shower of snow behind him that
he was speedily lost to view in a hole of his own excavating.