Whee!" He
meditated admiringly upon the strategy. "But what I can't seem to
understand," he said frankly, "is why the deuce it didn't work! Is your
swallower out of kilter? If you don't mind my asking!"
"I never noticed that it was paralyzed," Ford answered grimly. He got
up, lifted a lid of the stove, and threw in the cigarette stub
mechanically. Then he bethought him of his interrupted search, and
prodded a long-handled spoon into the flour bin, struck something smooth
and hard, and drew out a befloured, quart bottle half full of whisky.
He wiped the bottle carefully, inspected it briefly, and pitched it into
the gully, where it smashed odorously upon a rock. Jim, watching him,
knew that he was thinking all the while of something else. When Ford
spoke, he proved it.
"Are you any good at all in the kitchen, Jim?" he asked, turning to him
as if he had decided just how he would meet the situation.
"Well, I hate to brag, but I've known of men eating my grub and going
right on living as if nothing had happened," Jim admitted modestly.
"Well, you turn yourself loose in here, will you? The boys will be good
and empty when they come--it's dinner time right now.
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