"Supper?—no, thanks, Norton. But if you've a drop of something hot I can do with that."
"We've gener'ly got somethin' o' that about," replied the old man. "Whiskey or rum?"
"Whisky, man, whisky. I've got liver enough already without touching rum." Then he turned to "Poker" John.
"It's a devilish night, John, devilish. I started before you. Thought I could make the river in time. I was completely lost on the other side of the creek. I fancy the storm worked up from that direction."
He lumped into a chair close beside the stove. The others had already seated themselves.
"We didn't chance it. Bill drove us straight here," said "Poker" John.
"Guess Bill knew something—he generally does," as an afterthought.
"I know a blizzard when I see it," said Bunning-Ford, indifferently.
Lablache sipped his whisky. A silence fell on that gathering of refugees. Mrs. Norton had cleared the supper things.
"Well, if you gents'll excuse me I'll go back to bed. Old Joe'll look after you," she said abruptly. "Good-night to you all."