Tom fried his bacon in a stewpan, for the skillet had been divided with a cold chisel and neither half was of the slightest use to anybody. After he had eaten his pilot-bread, after he had drunk his cup of bitter tea and crept into bed, he was prompted to amend his prayer, for he discovered that two blankers were not going to be enough for him. Even the satisfaction of knowing that Jerry must feel the want even more keenly than did he failed to warm him sufficiently for thorough comfort. Tom was tired enough to swoon, but he refused to close his eyes before the rain came--what purpose was served by retributive justice unless a fellow stayed on the job to enjoy it? Truth to say, this self-denial cost him little, for the night had brought a chill with it and the tent was damp. Linton became aware, ere long, that he couldn't go to sleep, no matter how he tried, so he rose and put on extra clothes. But even then he shivered, and thereafter, of course, his blankets served no purpose whatever. He and Old Jerry were accustomed to sleeping spoon fashion, and not only did Tom miss those other blankets, but also his ex-partner's bodily heat. He would have risen and rekindled his camp-fire had it not been for his reluctance to afford Quirk the gratification of knowing that he was uncomfortable. Some people were just malicious enough to enjoy a man's sufferings. Well, if he were cold here in this snug shelter, Jerry must be about frozen under his flapping fly. Probably the old fool was too stubborn to whimper; no doubt he'd pretend to be enjoying himself, and would die sooner than acknowledge himself in the wrong. Jerry had courage, that way, but--this would serve him right, this would cure him. Linton was not a little disappointed when the rain continued to hold off. CHAPTER IX The change in the weather had not escaped Pierce Phillips' notice, and before going to bed he stepped out of his tent to study the sky. It was threatening. Recalling extravagant stories of the violence attained by storms in this mountain-lake country, he decided to make sure that his boats and cargo were out of reach of any possible danger, and so walked down to the shore. A boisterous wind had roused Lake Linderman, and out of the inky blackness came the sound of its anger. As Pierce groped his way up to the nearest skiff he was startled by receiving a sharp challenge in the Countess Courteau's voice. "Who is that?" she cried. "It's I, Pierce," he answered, quickly. He discovered the woman finally, and, approaching closer, he saw that she was sitting on a pile of freight, her heels drawn up beneath her and her arms clasped around her knees. "I came down to make sure everything was snug. But what are you doing here?" She looked down into his upturned face and her white teeth showed in a smile. "I came for the same purpose. Now I'm waiting for the storm to break. You can make out the clouds when your eyes grow accustomed--"