Two minutes later and the entire party had found shelter under the friendly roof of Mr. Merrivale’s big cabin, where Billy had kept the fire going merrily all the time.
Sam was immediately placed upon several blankets close to the fire, where the genial warmth would do much to restore his fast ebbing strength.
With the closing of the stout door much of the clamor of the storm that had been beating in their ears so long was deadened, so that talking became possible again without straining their voices unduly.
Sam Merrivale lay there, white of face, and with his eyes closed. Gus stared hard at his brother, and then looked pitifully toward Arthur. The latter did not need to be asked any question in order to understand what fear was gripping the heart of Gus.
“He’ll be feeling better shortly, when the warmth of the fire begins to get in its work,” he told the other.
After that Gus kept somewhat in the background, where he could see what went on and at the same time not be noticed by Sam, should the latter open his eyes and look at his rescuers.
This was the time for Billy to make his bid for recognition.
“Hugh,” he went on to say, confidingly buttonholing the scout master, “I went and heated up a can of mutton broth, thinking it might come in handy when you got the poor chap back here.”
“Bully for you, Billy!” exclaimed the other, slapping the broad back of the speaker with unction. “Just the thing to revive his energies. They always give mutton broth to invalids, because it gets in its work quicker than almost anything else going. Hurry it along in a tin cup, and don’t have it steaming hot, so it’ll scald his lips.”
Arthur meanwhile had succeeded in getting Sam into a half reclining position. He was talking to the late tramp, and in this way trying to arouse him.