"Thawing my beard, sir."

"Come here directly, and set to work on these bones."

John Want remained immovably attached to the fire-place, holding
something else over the fire. Crayford began to lose his temper.

"What the devil are you about now?"

"Thawing my watch, sir. It's been under my pillow all night, and
the cold has stopped it. Cheerful, wholesome, bracing sort of
climate to live in; isn't it, sir? Never mind! _I_ don't
grumble."

"No, we all know that. Look here! Are these bones pounded small
enough?"

John Want suddenly approached the lieutenant, and looked at him
with an appearance of the deepest interest.

"You'll excuse me, sir," he said; "how very hollow your voice
sounds this morning!"

"Never mind my voice. The bones! the bones!"

"Yes, sir--the bones. They'll take a trifle more pounding. I'll
do my best with them, sir, for your sake."

"What do you mean?"