Cold comfort is naturally suggested by a bed of snow, yet I have enjoyed
great comfort and much warmth in such a bed.
My friend Lumley was particularly fond of warmth and of physical ease,
yet he often expressed the opinion, with much emphasis, that there was
nothing he enjoyed so much as a night in a snow-bed. Jack Lumley was my
chum--a fine manly fellow with a vigorous will, a hardy frame, and a
kindly heart. We had a natural leaning towards each other--a sort of
undefinable sympathy--which inclined us to seek each other's company in
a quiet unobtrusive way. We were neither of us demonstrative; we did
not express regard for each other; we made no protestations of undying
friendship, but we drew together, somehow, especially in our hunting
expeditions which were numerous.
On holidays--we had two in the week at the outpost in the American
backwoods where we dwelt--when the other young fellows were cleaning
gulls or arranging snow-shoes for the day's work, Lumley was wont to say
to me:--
"Where d'you intend to shoot to-day, Max?" (Max was an abbreviation; my
real name is George Maxby.)
"I think I'll go up by the willows and round by Beaver Creek."
"I've half a mind to go that way too."
"Come along then."
And so we would go off together for the day.