"No, go ahead yourself, Pose. I'd be sure to calk a hoss or split a runner, or somethin'. Go on!"
Breem knocked, and both went in.
"All right, pard?"
"Right as right, Pose," said Joe Bennett.
"Wife all right?" Breem turned toward the bed, and Mrs. Bennett smiled up at him with happy eyes, and with a bit of colour already showing in her pale face. Breem smiled back broadly. Then he asked, "And, pard, the baby?"
"Peart as peart, Pose."
Breem waited a little, twirling his cap, but receiving a sharp thump from Thomson, went on:
"The boys, pard, are anxious about the little critter. They're kind of hankering, pard, and, mum, if you are willin', and ain't 'fraid to trust her with us, why, we'd be mighty glad to tote her—just for a few minutes—over to camp. The boys are stiddy, all of 'em, stiddy as churches. They hain't soaked a mite to-day, mum, and they ain't goin' to; they've hove the jug into a snowdrift, and they'd take it kind, mum—if you are willin'."
The woman, still smiling happily, was already wrapping up the baby.
Breem held up a warning finger when he returned a little later, and again smiled delightedly.