"I suppose out in California you fellows would say our temperature was a
darned sight MEANER, eh?" broke in Amos Gunn, with a confidential
glance at the others, as if offering a humorous diversion suited to
the Californian taste. Uncle Sylvester did not, however, smile. Gazing
critically at Gunn, he said thoughtfully: "I think not; I've even known
men killed for saying less than that," and turned to the clergyman. "You
are quite right; some of the higher passes are very cold. I was lost in
one of them in '56 with a small party. We were seventy miles from
any settlement, we had had nothing to eat for thirty-six hours; our
campfire, melting the snow, sank twelve feet below the surface." The
circle closed eagerly around him, Marie, Kitty, and Cousin Jane pressing
forward with excited faces; even the clergyman assumed an expression of
profound interest. "A man by the name of Thompson, I think," continued
Uncle Sylvester, thoughtfully gazing at the fire, "was frozen a few
yards away. Towards morning, having been fifty-eight hours without
food, our last drop of whiskey exhausted, and the fire extinguished, we
found"--

"Yes, yes!" said half a dozen voices.

"We found," continued Uncle Sylvester, rubbing his hands cheerfully, "we
found it--exceedingly cold. Yes--EXCEEDINGLY cold!"

There was a dead silence.

"But you escaped!" said Kitty breathlessly.

"I think so. I think we all escaped--that is, except Thompson, if
his name WAS Thompson; it might have been Parker," continued Uncle
Sylvester, gazing with a certain languid astonishment on the eager faces