"You've got things swept and garnished, all right," he remarked,
looking at the nearly clean floor with the tiny pools of dirty water
still standing in the worn places. "When did the fit take yuh? Did it
come on with fever-n'-chills, like most other breaking-outs? Or, did
the girl--"

"Aw, the darned dawg mussed up the floor, dying in here," Billy
apologized weakly. "I was plumb obliged to clean up after him." He
glanced somewhat shamefacedly at the floor. After all, it did not
look quite like the one where Miss Bridger lived; in his heart Billy
believed that was because he had no strip of carpet to spread before
the table. He permitted his glance to take in the bunk, nakedly
showing the hay it held for a softening influence and piled high with
many things--the things that would not go beneath.

"Your soogans are gathering frost to beat the band, Bill," the foreman
informed him, following his glance to the bunk. "Your inexperience
is something appalling, for a man that has fried his own bacon and
swabbed out his own frying-pan as many times as you have. Better go
bring 'em in. It was thinking about snowing again when I come."

Billy grinned a little and went after his bedding, brought it and
threw it with a fine disregard for order upon the accumulation of
boxes and benches in the bunk. "I'll go feed the hosses, and then I'll
cook yuh some supper," he told the foreman still humped comfortably
before the stove with his fur coat thrown open to the heat and his
spurred boots hoisted upon the hearth. "Better make up your mind to
stay till morning; it's getting mighty chilly, outside."