"About half as much as he needs."
"Leave him to us," said Eliza, grimly. "Now where does he live? We'll start in there."
O'Neil protested faintly. "Please don't! I hate soup, and I can't allow anybody to pry into my wardrobe. It won't stand inspection."
Miss Appleton pointed to his feet and asked, crisply:
"How many pairs of socks do you wear?"
"One."
"Any holes?"
"Sometimes."
Natalie was shocked. "One pair of socks in this cold! It's time we took a hand. Now lead us to this rabbit-hole where you live."
Reluctantly, yet with an unaccustomed warmth about his heart, O'Neil escorted them to his headquarters. It was a sharp, clear morning; the sky was as empty and bright as an upturned saucepan; against it the soaring mountain peaks stood out as if carved from new ivory. The glaciers to right and left were mute and motionless in the grip of that force which alone had power to check them; the turbulent river was hidden beneath a case-hardened armor; the lake, with its weird flotilla of revolving bergs, was matted with a broad expanse of white, across which meandered dim sled and snow-shoe trails. Underfoot the paths gave out a crisp complaint, the sunlight slanting up the valley held no warmth whatever, and their breath hung about their heads like vapor, crystallizing upon the fur of their caps and hoods.