l
us is so valuable to the litterateur, and American writers to the
faro-dealer.

"I shall go crazy in this abominable, mee-ser-rhable place!" was
Etienne's constant prediction.

"Never knew Mark Twain to bore me before," said Ross, over and over. He
sat by the other window, hour after hour, a box of Pittsburg stogies of
the length, strength, and odor of a Pittsburg graft scandal deposited
on one side of him, and "Roughing It," "The Jumping Frog," and "Life on
the Mississippi" on the other. For every chapter he lit a new stogy,
puffing furiously. This in time, gave him a recurrent premonition of
cramps, gastritis, smoker's colic or whatever it is they have in
Pittsburg after a too deep indulgence in graft scandals. To fend off
the colic, Ross resorted time and again to Old Doctor Still's
Amber-Colored U. S. A. Colic Cure. Result, after forty-eight
hours--nerves.

"Positive fact I never knew Mark Twain to make me tired before.
Positive fact." Ross slammed "Roughing It" on the floor. "When you're
snowbound this-away you want tragedy, I guess. Humor just seems to
bring out all your cussedness. You read a man's poor, pitiful attempts
to be funny and it makes you so nervous you want to tear the book up,
get out your bandana, and have a good, long cry."

At the other end of the room, the Frenchman took his finger nails out
of his mouth long enough to exclaim: "Humor! Humor at such a time as
thees! My God, I shall go crazy in thees abominable--"

"Supper," announced George.

These meals were not the meals of Rabelais who said, "the great God
makes the planets and we make the platters neat." By that time, the
ranch-house meals were not affairs of gusto; they were mental
distraction, not bodily provender. What they were to be later shall
never be forgotten by Ross or me or Etienne.

After supper, the stogies and finger nails began again. My shoulder
ached wretchedly, and with half-closed eyes I tried to forget it by
watching the deft movements of the stolid cook.

Suddenly I saw him cock his ear, like a dog. Then, with a swift step,
he moved to the door, threw it open, and stood there.

The rest of us had heard nothing.

"What is it, George?" asked Ross.

The cook reached out his hand into the darkness alongside the jamb.
With careful precision he prodded something. Then he made one careful
step into the snow. His back muscles bulged a little under the arms as
he stooped and lightly lifted a burden