Spurred on partly by the increased intensity of the cold, partly by the Colonel’s nonsense about the way they did it “down South,” Mac roused himself, and turned out a better piece of masonry for the Big Cabin than he had thought necessary for his own.  But everybody had a share in the glory of that fireplace.  The Colonel, Potts, and the Boy selected the stone, and brought it on a rude litter out of a natural quarry from a place a mile or more away up on the bare mountain-side.  O’Flynn mixed and handed up the mud-mortar, while Mac put in some brisk work with it before it stiffened in the increasing cold.

Everybody was looking forward to getting out of the tent and into the warm cabin, and the building of the fireplace stirred enthusiasm.  It was two and a half feet deep, three and a half feet high, and four feet wide, and when furnished with ten-inch hack logs, packed in glowing ashes and laid one above another, with a roaring good blaze in front of birch and spruce, that fire would take a lot of beating, as the Boy admitted, “even in the tat-pine Florida country.”

But no fire on earth could prevent the cabin from being swept through, the moment the door was opened, by a fierce and icy air-current.  The late autumnal gales revealed the fact that the sole means of ventilation had been so nicely contrived that whoever came in or went out admitted a hurricane of draught that nearly knocked him down.  Potts said it took a good half-hour, after anyone had opened the door, to heat the place up again.

“What!  You cold?” inquired the usual culprit.  The Boy had come in to put an edge on his chopper.  “It’s stopped snowin’, an’ you better come along with me, Potts.  Swing an axe for a couple of hours—­that’ll warm you.”

“I’ve got rheumatism in my shoulder to-day,” says Potts, hugging the huge fire closer.

“And you’ve got something wrong with your eyes, eh, Mac?”

Potts narrowed his and widened the great mouth; but he had turned his head so Mac couldn’t see him.

The Nova Scotian only growled and refilled his pipe.  Up in the woods the Boy repeated the conversation to the Colonel, who looked across at O’Flynn several yards away, and said:  “Hush!”

“Why must I shut up?  Mac’s eyes do look rather queer and bloodshot.  I should think he’d rather feel we lay it to his eyes than know we’re afraid he’s peterin’ out altogether.”

“I never said I was afraid—­”

“No, you haven’t said much.”  “I haven’t opened my head about it.”

“No, but you’ve tried hard enough for five or six days to get Mac to the point where he would come out and show us how to whip-saw.  You haven’t said anything, but you’ve—­you’ve got pretty dignified each time you failed, and we all know what that means.”

“We ought to have begun sawing boards for our bunks and swing-shelf a week back, before this heavy snowfall.  Besides, there’s enough fire-wood now; we’re only marking time until—­”