IX
PETER WINS HIS SPURS
To twenty-one, and then to thirty-eight below zero
dropped the thermometer. The captains forbade the
men to venture far from the fort, and the sentinels
were relieved every half hour. The air was so filled
with ice haze that two suns seemed to be shining.
Of course not much work could be done out of doors, in such weather. However, with the first warm spell, at twenty above, Pat, the boss carpenter, hustled his squad to complete the fence. Lustily chopping with broad-axes they rapidly turned out pickets that were two feet wide, four inches thick, twelve feet long and sharpened at both ends. These were set upright in a shallow ditch and spiked, edge against edge, to the stringers.
Finally Pat swung the heavy gate to and fro on its leathern hinges; it closed perfectly, and the bar that fastened it dropped easily into place. That was the last touch, and Pat heaved a sigh of relief.
"'Tis a good job well done, lads," he complimented. "An' jest in time. To-morrow we cilibrate."
"Why, Pat?" queried Peter.
"Sure, ain't to-morrow Christmas?" rebuked Pat. "That's a new wan to ye, mebbe?" And Peter needs must have "Christmas" explained to him.
