The covered land was blue with the sheen of an
unearthly satin, and there was no other hue save where at the low
black railway station- which seemed incredibly distant- one light
gleamed like a tiny jewel. As the men floundered into a thigh-deep
drift, it was known that the Swede was bawling out something. Scully
went to him, put a hand on his shoulder and projected an ear.
"What's that you say?" he shouted.
"I say," bawled the Swede again, "I won't stand much show against
this gang. I know you'll all pitch on me."
Scully smote him reproachfully on the arm. "Tut, man," he yelled.
The wind tore the words from Scully's lips and scattered them far
a-lee.
"You are all a gang of-" boomed the Swede, but the storm also seized
the remainder of this sentence.
Immediately turning their backs upon the wind, the men had swung
around a corner to the sheltered side of the hotel. It was the
function of the little house to preserve here, amid this great
devastation of snow, an irregular V-shape of heavily-incrusted
grass, which crackled beneath the feet. One could imagine the great
drifts piled against the windward side. When the party reached the
comparative peace of this spot it was found that the Swede was still
bellowing.
"Oh, I know what kind of a thing this is! I know you'll all pitch on
me. I can't lick you all!"
Scully turned upon him panther-fashion.
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