The fall continued all that night, and in the morning we found ourselves
thickly covered. It was still snowing hard, so there was no stirring.
We read the novels, hemmed the towels, smoked, and took it
philosophically. There was plenty of firewood to keep us warm. By
night the snow was fully two feet thick everywhere, and in the drifts
five and six feet. I determined that we would have some grog, and had
no sooner hinted the bright idea than two volunteers undertook the
rather difficult task of getting it. The terrace must have been 150
feet above the hut; it was very steep, intersected by numerous gullies
filled with deeply drifted snow; from the top it was yet a full quarter
of a mile to the place where we had left the dray. Still the brave
fellows, inspired with hope, started in full confidence, while we put
our kettle on the fire and joyfully awaited their return. They had been
gone at least two hours, and we were getting fearful that they had
broached the cask and helped themselves too liberally on the way, when
they returned in triumph with the two-gallon keg, vowing that never in
their lives before had they worked so hard.
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