As Uncle Bill Griswold came breathless from the raging whiteness outside with an armful of bark and wood, the two long icicles hanging from the ends of his mustache made him look like an industrious walrus. He drew the fuel beside the tiny, sheet-iron camp stove, and tied fast the flap of the canvas tent.

“We’re in a jack-pot, all right.”

He delivered the commonplace pronunciamento in a tone which would have conveyed much to a mountain man. To Mr. Sprudell it meant only that he might expect further annoyance. He demanded querulously:

“Did you find my shirt?”

Uncle Bill rolled his eyes with a droll grimace of despair toward the mound of blankets in the corner whence came the muffled voice. The innocence of a dude was almost pitiful. He answered dryly:

“I wouldn’t swear to it—I wouldn’t go so far as to make my affadavvy to it, but I think I seen your shirt wavin’ from a p’int a rock about seventy mile to the south’ard—over t’ward the Thunder Mountain country.”

“Gone?”

“Gone”—mournfully—“where the woodbine twineth.”

“And my trousers?”

“Where the wangdoodle mourneth fer his lost love. Blowed off. I got your union suit out’n the top of55 a pine tree. You’ve no more pants than a rabbit, feller. Everything went when the guy-ropes busted—I warned you to sleep in your clothes.”

“But what’ll I do?” Sprudell quavered.<