“Guess it’s blowing itself out!” he shouted.
Orkney nodded. “My notion, too. But it won’t quit for a while yet.”
“Sure! Nothing for us but to plug ahead.”
And they “plugged.” The slang fitted the case. Orkney’s foot caught on a hidden root, and he pitched forward on hands and knees. The snow yielded under his weight; an unsuspected bank revealed itself; and Tom, the center of a small avalanche, slid a dozen yards toward the frozen surface of the South Fork.
Sam, hurrying after him, helped him to regain his feet. “Thanks!” said Orkney, and shook himself like a Newfoundland emerging from a swim.
In five minutes he had his chance to reciprocate. Sam caught a bad fall over a boulder, barely hidden by a drift.
“Glory! That shook me up!” Sam confessed. “’Twouldn’t be a good thing for a fellow to be out here alone and get hurt, eh?”
“No,” said Orkney.
“But, pulling together, we’ll pull through!” cried Sam, and clapped him on the shoulder.
They went on, but only to share a mishap. The snow had bridged a brook running down to the Fork; and the arch caved under them. Down they went to their armpits in the snow. They scrambled out of the hole uninjured but breathless.