in its mysterious depths, and then emptying the entire contents upon the
ground-sheet at his feet.

"Hurry up!" I cried; "it's boiling."

The Swede burst out into a roar of laughter that startled me. It was
forced laughter, not artificial exactly, but mirthless.

"There's nothing here!" he shouted, holding his sides.

"Bread, I mean."

"It's gone. There is no bread. They've taken it!"

I dropped the long spoon and ran up. Everything the sack had contained
lay upon the ground-sheet, but there was no loaf.

The whole dead weight of my growing fear fell upon me and shook me. Then
I burst out laughing too. It was the only thing to do: and the sound of
my own laughter also made me understand his. The strain of psychical
pressure caused it--this explosion of unnatural laughter in both of us;
it was an effort of repressed forces to seek relief; it was a temporary
safety valve. And with both of us it ceased quite suddenly.

"How criminally stupid of me!" I cried, still determined to be
consistent and find an explanation. "I clean forgot to buy a loaf at
Pressburg. That chattering woman put everything out of my head, and I
must have left it lying on the counter or----"

"The oatmeal, too, is much less than it was this morning," the Swede