nd old Wolf, in the rear, had a sharp eye for
lagging heels, which he snapped, in a flash, whenever a trace was let
slack. What with Fox and Wolf and the skipper's long whip and my cries
of encouragement there was no let up. On we went, coursing over the
level stretches, bumping over rough places, swerving 'round the turns.
It was a glorious ride. The day was clear, the air frosty, the pace
exhilarating. The blood tingled in every part of me. I was sorry when we
rounded Pipestem Point, and the huddled tilts of the Lodge, half buried
in snow, came into view. But, half an hour later, in Skipper Tommy's
tilt, I was glad that the distance had been no greater, for then the
twins were helping me thaw out my cheeks and the tip of my nose, which
had been frozen on the way.

That night the twins and I slept together in the cock-loft like a litter
of puppies.

"Beef!" sighed Jacky, the last thing before falling asleep. "Think o'
that, Timmie!"

"An' jam!" said Timmie.

They gave me a nudge to waken me. "Thanks, Davy," said they both.

Then I fell asleep.

* * * * *

Our folk slept a great deal at the Lodge. They seemed to want to have
the winter pass without knowing more than they could help of the various
pangs of it--like the bears. But, when the weather permitted them to
stir without, they trapped for fox and lynx, and hunted (to small
purpose) with antiquated guns, and cut wood, if they were in the humour;
and whatever necessity compelled them to do, and whatever they had to
eat (since there was at least enough of it), they managed to have a
rollicking time of it, as you would not suppose, without being told. The
tilts were built of slim logs, caulked with moss; and there was but one
room--and that a bare one--with bunks at one end for the women and a
cock-loft above for the men. The stove was kept at red heat, day and
night, but, notwithstanding, there was half an inch of frost on the
walls and great icicles under the bunks: extremes of temperature were
thus to be found within a very narrow compass. In the evening, when we
were all gathered close about the stove, we passed the jolliest hours;
for it was then that the folk came in, and tales were told, and (what
was even more to our taste) the "spurts at religion" occurred.

When the argument concerned the pains of hell, Mary, Tom Tot's daughter,
who was already bound out to service to the new manager of the store at
Wayfarer's Tickle