"If I hear ony mair o' they on-comfortable re-marks," slowly spoke Mac, with a reproachful glance at the last speaker, "I'll sing ye the Deid March. A lang time deid, did ye say? For ony sake, Phil, think on something cheery."
"All right, Mac," retorted Phil. "I'll think of the feast we're going to have in the Hotel Cecil when we get back to civilisation." While he spoke he unconsciously hitched in his belt another hole.
Then Stewart's voice rasped out dismally, "There's ... nae ... place like ... hame——"
"Stop that concert!" I cried, while Phil squirmed in agony; but Mac had already seized the throat of the musician in a relentless grip, and the melancholy refrain spluttered out spasmodically to a finish.
"Ye on-ceevilised backslider!" Mac roared in righteous wrath. "Hoo daur ye whine aboot hame in sic a menner? Fur twa peens," he concluded, with rising ferocity—"fur twa peens, ma man, A'd shak' yer teeth oot!"
The half-choked culprit smiled with benign expression, "I wis makin' a joyfu' noise," he replied calmly. "Ye're gettin' gey hard tae please, I'm thinkin'."
Phil laughed till the tears sprang to his eyes and traced small channels down his unwashed face, but he stopped abruptly when Mac shoved a tin pannikin under his chin.
"What a sinfu' waste o' water," said the sphinx. "I raelly wunner at ye, Phil."
Stewart, who had been busying himself about the fire, now interrupted again. "Supper's ready," he howled, "an' the menoo is tinned dug an' damper, or damper an' tinned dug; wi' a puckle roasted rice fur them as wants indee-gestion; the hale tae be washed doon wi' twa or three draps o' dirty watter."