boiling." But the Gaffer pushed up the heavy bolts and dragged the door
open.

"What in the! . . .Here, bear a hand, lads!"

Long Ede lay prone before the threshold, his out-stretched hands almost
touching it, his moccasins already covered out of sight by the powdery
snow which ran and trickled incessantly--trickled between his long,
dishevelled locks, and over the back of his gloves, and ran in a thin
stream past the Gaffer's feet.

They carried him in and laid him on a heap of skins by the fire.
They forced rum between his clenched teeth and beat his hands and feet,
and kneaded and rubbed him. A sigh fluttered on his lips: something
between a sigh and a smile, half seen, half heard. His eyes opened, and
his comrades saw that it was really a smile.

"Wot cheer, mate?" It was the Snipe who asked.

"I--I seen . . ." The voice broke off, but he was smiling still.

What had he seen? Not the sun, surely! By the Gaffer's reckoning the
sun would not be due for a week or two yet: how many weeks he could not
say precisely, and sometimes he was glad enough that he did not know.

They forced him to drink a couple of spoonfuls of rum, and wrapped him
up warmly. Each man contributed some of his own bedding. Then the
Gaffer called to morning prayers, and the three sound men dropped on
their knees with him. Now, whether by reason of their joy at Long Ede's
recovery, or because the old man was in splendid voice, they felt their