“Here?” cried Patsy. “Won’t we freeze?”
“Freeze? No, we’ll be safe as a bug in a rug. Just you sit down on a sled until I unpack this one. After that I’ll picket out the reindeer and get supper.”
From the sled Marian dragged a sheet iron affair which she called a Yukon stove. With dry moss, dug from beneath the snow, and wood brought on the sled, she kindled a fire. They had no shelter, but the glow of the fire cheered Patsy immeasurably. When the smell of frying bacon and warming red beans reached her she was ready to execute a little dance of joy.
Supper over, Marian took a small trench shovel, salvaged by a friend from the great war, and scraped away the snow from above the soft, dry tundra moss. Over this cleared space she spread a square of canvas. Then, untying a thong about a deerskin sleeping bag, she allowed the bag to slowly unroll itself along the canvas.
“There,” she announced, “the bed is made. No need to pull down the shades. We’ll get off our outer garments and hop right in.”
Patsy looked at her in astonishment. Then, seeing her take off first her mackinaw, then her sweater, she followed suit.
“Now,” said Marian as they reached the proper stage of disrobing, “you do it like this.”
Sitting down upon the canvas, she thrust her feet into the sleeping bag, then began to work her way into it.
“Come on,” she directed, “we can do it best together. It’s just big enough for two. I had it made that way on purpose.”
Patsy dropped to the place beside her. Then together they burrowed their way into the depths of the bag until only their eyes and noses were uncovered.