"Is that so? Well, we've got to get out of here--I refuse to put in another such night. Lie still!" he commanded ferociously. "You're letting in a lot of cold air. Quit rampin' round!" From which it may be gathered that Mr. Sprudell, for purposes of warmth and protection, was sleeping with the Chinese cook. "Three in a bed _is_ crowded," Uncle Bill admitted, with a grin. "To-night you might try settin' up." A head of tousled white hair appeared above the edge of the blankets, then a pair of gleaming eyes. "I propose to get out of here to-day," Mr. Sprudell announced, with hauteur. "Indeed?" inquired Uncle Bill calmly. "Where do you aim to go?" "I'm going back to Ore City--on foot, if need be--I'll walk!" Uncle Bill explained patiently: "The trail's wiped out, the pass is drifted full of snow, and the cold's a fright. You'd be lost inside of fifteen yards. That's loco talk." "I'm going to get up." There was offended dignity in Mr. Sprudell's tone. "You can't," said the old man shortly. "You ain't got no pants, and your shoes is full of snow. I doubts if you has socks till I takes a stick and digs around where your tepee was." "Tsch! Tsch!" Mr. Sprudell's tongue clicked against his teeth in the extreme of exasperation at Uncle Bill. By some process of reasoning he blamed him for their present plight. "I'm hungry!" he snapped, in a voice which implied that the fact was a matter of moment. "So am I," said Uncle Bill; "I'm holler to my toes." "I presume"--in cold sarcasm--"there's no reason why we shouldn't breakfast, since it's after ten." "None at all," Uncle Bill answered easily, "except we're out of grub." "What!" "I explained that to you four days ago, but you said you'd got to get a sheep. I thought I could eat snowballs as long as you could. But I didn't look for such a storm as this." "There's nothing?" demanded Sprudell, aghast. "Oh, yes, there's _somethin'_," grimly. "I kin take the ax and break up a couple of them doughnuts and bile the coffee grounds again. To-night we'll gorge ourselves on a can of froze tomatoes, though I hates to eat so hearty and go right to bed. There's a pint of beans, too, that by cookin' steady in this altitude ought to be done by spring. We'd 'a' had that sheep meat, only it blowed out of the tree last night and somethin' drug it off. Here's your doughnut." Mr. Sprudell snatched eagerly at it and retired under the covers, where a loud scrunching told of his efforts to masticate the frozen tidbit. "Can you eat a little somethin', Toy? Is your rheumatiz a-hurtin' pretty bad?" "Hiyu lumatiz," a faint voice answered, "plitty bad." The look of gravity on the man's face deepened as he stood rubbing his hands over the red-hot stove, which gave out little or no heat in the intense cold.