“You—you fellows—here—all of you!” he gasped.
“All of us—safe and sound,” cried Sam, and tried to lead him toward the fire. Lon resisted.
“No, no! Take—take it easy. I—I’m better off here for a while. But—but what you doin’—doin’——” his voice trailed weakly.
In a dozen sentences Sam told him. Lon’s eyes opened wide.
“Wal, wal! And the storm catched you! And such a whopper of a howler of a storm, gee whillikens!”
“We know about it. But where did you come from?”
Lon pulled off his cap, and bending down, scooped up a handful of snow from the drift under the window.
“Wait a minute—fust aid treatment fust!” said he; and began to rub his face and ears. “No; lemme be! You—you can’t help me. I’m like—like an old cat—got to lick my own scratches.”
Perforce Sam desisted. Lon, working deliberately and carefully, winced now and then.
“Got through the hide in places,” he admitted. “This ain’t no night for a polar bear to be out. Wow! but that wind did sting and cut!”