Part 2 (2/2)
”Run, cook--fetch a bucketful!” cried our chief.
Cook, who had ”lost his head,” obediently ran, seized a big earthenware jug, dipped it into the barrel, and smashed it to atoms on a cake of thick ice! This had the effect of partially recovering his head for him. He seized an axe, shattered the cake, caught up a bucket, dipped it full and rushed out spilling half its contents as he ran. The spillings became icicles before they reached the flaming chimney, but the frost, keen as it was, could not quite solidify the liquid in so short a s.p.a.ce of time.
Blondin, the princ.i.p.al bearer of the winter packet who was a heroic man and chief actor in this scene, received the half-empty bucket.
”Bah!” he exclaimed, tossing bucket as well as water contemptuously down the wide chimney. ”Bring shuvill, an' blunkits.”
Blondin was a French-Canadian half-caste, and not a good linguist.
A shovel was thrown up to him. He seized it and shovelled volumes of snow from the house-top into the chimney. A moment later and two blankets were thrown up. Blondin spread one over the flames. It was shrivelled up instantly. He stuffed down the remains and spread the second blanket over them, while he shouted for a third. The third came, and, another bucket of water arriving at the same moment, with a large ma.s.s of snow detached from the roof, the whole were thrust down the chimney _en ma.s.se_, the flames were quenched and the house was saved.
During this exciting scene, I had begun to realise the great danger of fire in the chimney of a wooden house, and, with the aid of my comrades, had been throwing the contents of Bachelors' Hall out into the snow. We now ceased this process, and began to carry them back again, while the men crowded round the iron author of all the mischief to warm their half-frozen bodies. I now observed for the first time that Blondin had a black patch on the end of his nose. It was a handsome feature usually, but at that time it was red, swelled, and what may be termed blobby.
”What's the matter with it, Blondin?” I asked.
”My noz was froz,” he replied curtly.
”You'd better have it looked to, or it'll be worse than froz, my man,”
said Lumley.
Blondin laughed and went off to attend to his nose in the men's house, accompanied by the others, while we set to work to clean ourselves and our abode. Thereafter, with moderated fire, we again got under our buffalo robes, where we spent the remainder of a disturbed night in thinking and dreaming about the thrilling contents of the winter packet.
CHAPTER THREE.
DEEPER DESOLATION.
Eight months of winter! Those who have read and entered into the spirit of Arctic voyagers, may have some idea of what that means, but none save he or she who has had experience of it can fully understand it.
To us who dwelt at the little outpost in the Great Nor'-west, snow and ice had become so familiar--such matter-of-course conditions of existence--that green fields and flowers were a mere reminiscence of the remote past. The scent of a rose was a faded memory--indeed the scent of anything belonging to the vegetable kingdom had not once saluted our nostrils during those eight months. Pure white became one of the chief and most impressive facts of our existence in regard to colour, if we may so call it--white, varying in tone, of course, to pearly grey.
Cold, of varied intensity, was the chief modifier of our sensations.
Happily light was also a potent factor in our experiences--bright, glowing suns.h.i.+ne and blue skies contrasted well with the white and grey, and helped to counteract the cold; while pure air invigorated our frames and cheered our spirits.
”I tell you what, boys,” said Lumley, one afternoon as he entered the hall with gun and snow-shoes on shoulder, and flung down a bag full of ptarmigan, ”winter is drawing to a close at last. I felt my deerskin coat quite oppressive to-day; does any one know what the thermometer stood at this morning?”
”Yes, it was twenty-two above zero,” answered Spooner, who was attempting to smoke a pipe beside the stove; ”I went to register it just after breakfast.”
”I thought so--only ten below freezing point; why, it feels quite summery, and the snow has a softness that I have not noticed since last autumn. I hope dinner will soon be ready, for I'm very sharp set. Why, Spooner, what are you making such faces for?”
”Am I making faces?” said Spooner, blus.h.i.+ng and trying to look unconcerned.
”Of course you are, a marmozette monkey with the toothache could scarcely make worse.”
Spooner attempted to laugh, and I felt it difficult to refrain from joining him, for I knew well the cause of his faces. He was the youngest of us three and exceedingly anxious to imitate Lumley, who was unfortunately a great smoker; but Spooner, like myself, had been born with a dislike to smoke--especially tobacco smoke--and a liability to become sick when he indulged in the pipe. Hence, whilst foolish ambition induced him to smoke, outraged nature protested; and between the two the poor fellow had a bad time of it. He had a good deal of determination about him, however, and persevered.
The dinner-bell rang at the moment, and put an end to further badinage.
Lumley was right. Spring was in truth at hand, and a host of new antic.i.p.ations began from that day to crowd upon our minds.
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