"I believe you are right. I do hate to think of getting up—still—guess there's no help for it," and Dave, with many groans and sighs, eased himself to his feet, the others following.
The air outside was sharp and piercing, the stars shone with great brilliancy, and the landscape wore a dreary, desolate appearance.
With chattering teeth, the boys approached the big pile of fir brush which had been left over, and began to gather it up. Trip after trip they made, working swiftly, and occasionally stopping to swing their arms.
"That ought to do," said Bob, when the floor had been covered to a depth of a foot and a half.
"It will have to do."
"Will I ever be warm again?" sighed Tom Clifton.
They resumed their places, and again there was silence.
This time, their repose was not broken until the cheerful rays of the morning sun flooded the landscape.