With the practised hand of an old cook he prepared a simple but hearty
repast, upon which they fell with appetites keenly edged with the cold
air.

"Are ye anythin' av a cuk?"

Redmond grinned deprecatingly and then shook his head.

"Eyah!" grumbled Slavin, "seems I cannot hilp bein' cuk an' shtandin'
orderly-man around here. I thried out Yorkey. . . . Wan day on'y
tho'--'tis th' divil's own cuk he is. 'Sarjint!' sez he, 'I'm no
bowatchee'--which in Injia he tells me means same as cuk. An' he tould
th' trute at that."

Some three hours later, as they lay on their cots, came to them the
faint, far-off _toot_! _toot_! of an engine, through the keen atmosphere.

"That's Number Four from th' West," remarked Slavin drowsily, "Yorkey
shud be along on ut. Well! a walk will not hurt th' man if--"

He chuntered something to himself.

Half an hour elapsed slowly--three quarters. Slavin rolled off his cot
with a grunt and strode heavily to the front door, which he opened.
Redmond silently followed him and together the two men stepped out into
the crisply-crunching hard-packed snow. It was a magnificent night.
High overhead in the star-studded sky shone a splendid full moon, its
clear cold rays lighting up the white world around them with a sort of
phosphorescent, scintillating brilliance.