Pauses were rare in our talk, and the fire was never
for one instant allowed to get low. The wind and rain had ceased, but
the dripping of the branches still kept up an excellent imitation of a
downpour. In particular, Maloney was vigilant and alert, telling us a
series of tales in which the wholesome humorous element was especially
strong. He lingered, too, behind with me after Sangree had gone to bed,
and while I mixed myself a glass of hot Swedish punch, he did a thing I
had never known him do before--he mixed one for himself, and then asked
me to light him over to his tent. We said nothing on the way, but I felt
that he was glad of my companionship.
I returned alone to the stockade, and for a long time after that kept
the fire blazing, and sat up smoking and thinking. I hardly knew why;
but sleep was far from me for one thing, and for another, an idea was
taking form in my mind that required the comfort of tobacco and a
bright fire for its growth. I lay against a corner of the stockade
seat, listening to the wind whispering and to the ceaseless drip-drip of
the trees.
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