He reached down, felt for her face, and patted her cheek. “You’ve been as plucky as— Do you know, I really can’t—”
What in Cain was the matter with him? Would he snivel too? Right there! Before her? He scorned himself silently, not knowing that the situation and her pitiful tears were enough to break an older and calmer fellow than he was.
“There, Billy! Good boy! I’m all right now. I won’t cry another tear. Why should I? I have the best, the bravest—”
“Cut it out! I’m the fool that got you left.”
He ran off with her half laughing challenge to fate ringing in his ears. “Billy, I almost don’t care. It’s awfully grand to see any one prove all to the good the way you do.”
Back to the chips and the bark he hurried, and had hard work to nurse his fire in the rain. Only by a constant piling of the dried fir branches that he found around the prostrate tree did he defy the shower,—which was harder now,—and keep the blaze going till it passed. When at last the clouds broke and the moon appeared it was behind the hill, leaving the little clearing in the shadow; but a faint tinge of lighter gray in the east heralded the dawn.
Worn with anxiety more than with effort, Billy dragged some dryer limbs from under the tree, finding them by feeling rather than by sight, as indeed he had done nearly everything that night. After banking his fire high with bark, he shook his wet cap and put it to dry, threw open his wet coat to the heat, and prepared to watch out the rest of the short night.
Soon an irresistible drowsiness overtook him. He fought desperately, not wishing to stir about lest he should keep Erminie awake. In the midst of a moment that was perilously near unconsciousness, she called:
“The signal, Billy! You forgot it. Here’s the handkerchief.”
“Gee whiz!” He sprang up and went to her. “My forgettery deserves a medal. You should be proud to—”