“Yeah, maybe it will—and it’ll leave us to do the same,” Bill retorted. “What the heck are you scared of, professor?”
“Nothing at all. Not even your gosh-awful. Will you fill that corn can with water for me, Bill? I’ll try a cold compress on the foot.”
Bill did as he was requested and a sight of the discolored foot stirred him to sympathy. Abington, he suddenly saw, must have suffered cruelly all day, though he hadn’t said anything about it. Bill remembered too that Abington had remained awake all last night while he himself had slept. But it was not Bill’s way to apologize.
“That’s a hell of a looking foot!” he growled. “Hot water beats cold. After supper I’ll heat a can of water—”
“After supper I’m going to sleep,” Abington rebuffed him. “Cold water will do.”
“Have it your way—it’s your foot,” snapped Bill, and relapsed into his morose silence.
It was not an agreeable supper, and neither spoke while they drank coffee and ate bacon and fried corn from the same frying pan.
Bill was tired and full of uneasy fears and he bitterly resented Abington’s action in regard to the guns. He was accustomed to the feel of a gun’s weight against his hip and the thought of facing trouble without a weapon gave him an uncomfortable feeling of helplessness. Add mystery to the hazard, and Bill reacted with a dread not far removed from panic.
Abington ate and drank his share, then forced himself to explore the cave with a lamp. He chose for himself a niche in one side of the wall near the entrance, where he would hear any intruder and would still be fairly well concealed.