In another moment you will have the gas." "Th--th--that's all very well," Bishop spluttered, wrestling with an obstructing piece of ice until it was wrenched from his upper lip and slammed stoveward with a bang.
"How cold do you make it, Del?
Fifty ?" "Fifty ?" the pocket-miner demanded with unutterable scorn, wiping his face.

"Quicksilver's been solid for hours, and it's been gittin' colder an' colder ever since.

Fifty?
I'll bet my new mittens against your old moccasins that it ain't a notch below seventy." "Think so ?" "D'ye want to bet ?" Vance nodded laughingly.
"Centigrade or Fahrenheit ?" Bishop asked, suddenly suspicious.
"Oh, well, if you want my old moccasins so badly," Vance rejoined, feigning to be hurt by the other's lack of faith, "why, you can have them without betting." Del snorted and flung himself down on the opposite bunk.

"Think yer funny, don't you ?" No answer forthcoming, he deemed the retort conclusive, rolled over, and fell to studying the moss chinks.
Fifteen minutes of this diversion sufficed.

"Play you a rubber of crib before bed," he challenged across to the other bunk.
"I'll go you." Corliss got up, stretched, and moved the kerosene lamp from the shelf to the table, "Think it will hold out ?" he asked, surveying the oil-level through the cheap glass.
Bishop threw down the crib-board and cards, and measured the contents of the lamp with his eye.