The cellar-master was a late sleeper. He woke now to see Johanson hurrying about, evidently making ready for a trip.
"What are you doing? You are letting the cold in here, sir," said the old fellow, only half awake.
"The poet is missing. He didn't come home last night. I shall go and look him up. Have you any whisky? You have, I know. I saw Gull bring you in a bottle last night. Let me have it, will you?"
"Yes; a pull will keep you up," was the answer.
"I don't want it for me," said Johanson hastily; "it has pulled me down low enough. I'll never taste it again. But that poor fellow, he may need it, if I find him."
"You are not going to risk yourself out looking for him!" said the cellar-master, now fairly awake. "You are right down crazy. Quiet yourself. He'll be coming in soon, and making rhymes about his trip. You don't look over hearty. I should think you would be afraid to risk it."
"Afraid!" said Johanson. "Have you ever been in a tornado? Have you been in an earthquake? Have you been out in a blizzard, with no house within miles?"
"No, no, no!" was the threefold reply.
"I've tried them all," said Johanson, "and I am not afraid of a little snow. Lend me your stick, and I'm off."
Off he was, but not to return through the long morning. Towards noon, a party who had been out with a snow-plough and a sledge came back, bearing two bodies carefully covered.