inquired for Long
Ede. He had not returned. "Go you up to the roof. The lad must be
frozen." The Snipe climbed the ladder, pushed open the trap, and came
back, reporting that Long Ede was nowhere to be seen. The old man
slipped a jumper over his suits of clothing--already three deep--reached
for a gun, and moved to the door. "Take a cup of something warm to
fortify," the Snipe advised. "The kettle won't be five minutes
boiling." But the Gaffer pushed up the heavy bolts and dragged the door
open.

"What in the! . . .Here, bear a hand, lads!"

Long Ede lay prone before the threshold, his out-stretched hands almost
touching it, his moccasins already covered out of sight by the powdery
snow which ran and trickled incessantly--trickled between his long,
dishevelled locks, and over the back of his gloves, and ran in a thin
stream past the Gaffer's feet.

They carried him in and laid him on a heap of skins by the fire.
They forced rum between his clenched teeth and beat his hands and feet,
and kneaded and rubbed him. A sigh fluttered on his lips: something
between a sigh and a smile, half seen, half heard. His eyes opened, and
his comrades saw that it was really a smile.

"Wot cheer, mate?" It was the Snipe who asked.

"I--I seen . . ." The voice broke off, but he was smiling still.

What had he seen? Not the sun, surely! By the Gaffer's reckoning the
sun would not be due for a week or two yet: how many weeks he could not
say precisely, and sometimes he was glad enough that he did not know.

They forced him to drink a couple of spoonfuls of rum, and wrapped him
up warmly. Each man contributed some of his own bedding. Then the
Gaffer called to morning prayers, and the three sound men dropped on
their knees with him. Now, whether by reason of their joy at Long Ede's
recovery, or because the old man was in splendid voice, they felt their
hearts uplifted that morning with a cheerfulness they had not known for
months. Long Ede lay and listened dreamily while the passion of the
Gaffer's thanksgiving shook the hut. His gaze wandered over their bowed
forms--"The Gaffer, David Faed, Dan Cooney, the Snipe, and--and George
Lashman in his bunk, of course--and me." But, then, _who was the
seventh?_ He began to count. "There's myself--Lashman, in his bunk--
David Faed, the Gaffer, the Snipe, Dan Cooney . . . One, two, three,
four--well, but that made _seven_. Then who was the seventh? Was it
George who had cr