"So you and me is headed fer the Fryin' Pan by our lonelies, thinkin' we can make Butch let loose of Palmer's stuff?"
"That's one way to put it, Bob."
"Well," sighed Bob, after a long interval of deep meditation, "all right. Me, I'm a chancey cuss, anyway. I crawled into a wolf den once, and the old she come and crawled in with me by another hole I didn't know about, and caught me with about four pups in my arms." He heaved another reminiscent sigh. "D' you pick awn me, Bud, b'cause you knew I had the heart of an angry lion?"
Bud's brown-velvet eyes smiled briefly into his.
"I picked you primarily because I knew you'd keep your mouth shut afterwards."
"Primarily, it's a cinch I will," Bob agreed with melancholy assurance. "Dead men tells no tales outa school. That's why."
"Oh, I don't think it will be that bad. They can't be far ahead of us, Bob. We may not have to go clear to the Frying Pan."
"No, boy, we might not live that long. But that's all right—only I always did hate the thoughts of dyin' on an empty stomach."
"Why the sudden pessimism?" Having worries of his own, Bud leaned to sarcasm.
"Gosh, I'd eat that word if I could chew it!" Bob muttered longingly. "Say a softer one about that same length, won't you, p'fessor?"