"We'd been out in the hills for a week on our first trip before he
got one of them death-watch faces on him, and boycotted the English
langwidge. I stood for it three days, trying to jolly a grin on to
him or rattle a word loose, but he just wouldn't jolt.

"One night we packed into camp tired, hungry, and dying for a good
feed.

"I hustled around and produced a supper fit for old Mr. Eppycure.
Knowing that Kink had a weakness for strong coffee that was simply a
hinge in him, I pounded up about a quart of coffee beans in the
corner of a blanket and boiled out a South American liquid that was
nothing but the real Arbuckle mud.

"This wasn't no chafing-dish party either, because the wood was wet
and the smoke chased me round the fire. Then it blazed up in spurts
and fired the bacon-grease, so that when I grabbed the skillet the
handle sizzled the life all out of my callouses. I kicked the fire
down to a nice bed of coals and then the coffee-pot upset and put it
out. Ashes got into the bacon, and--Oh! you know how joyful it is to
cook on a green fire when you're dead tired and your hoodoo's on
vicious.

"When the 'scoffings' were finally ready, I wasn't in what you might
exactly call a mollyfying and tactful mood nor exuding genialness and
enthusiasms anyways noticeable."

"I herded the best in camp towards him, watching for a benevolent
symptom, but he just dogged it in silence and never changed a hair.
That was the limit, so I inquired sort of ominous and gentle, 'Is