"None o' your gammon, Jake," the Virgin snapped back, with lip curled
contemptuously for Vance's especial benefit. "I fancy it'd be more in
keeping if you'd look to pore Blanche, there."
"Fact is, we're plum ding dong played out," Jake said. "An' Blanche
went through the ice just down the trail, and her feet's like to
freezin'."
Blanche smiled as Corliss piloted her to a stool by the fire, and her
stern mouth gave no indication of the pain she was suffering. He
turned away when the Virgin addressed herself to removing the wet
footgear, while Bishop went rummaging for socks and moccasins.
"Didn't go in more'n to the ankles," Cornell explained confidentially;
"but that's plenty a night like this."
Corliss agreed with a nod of the head.
"Spotted your light, and--hem--and so we come. Don't mind, do you?"
"Why, certainly not--"
"No intrudin'?"
Corliss reassured him by laying hand on his shoulder and cordially
pressing him to a seat. Blanche sighed luxuriously. Her wet stockings
were stretched up and already steaming, and her feet basking in the
capacious warmth of Bishop's Siwash socks. Vance shoved the tobacco
canister across, but Cornell pulled out a handful of cigars and passed
them around.
"Uncommon bad piece of trail just this side of the turn," he remarked
stentoriously, at the same time flinging an eloquent glance at the
demijohn.
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