“Indeed?” inquired Uncle Bill calmly. “Where do you aim to go?”
“I’m going back to Ore City—on foot, if need be—I’ll walk!”
Uncle Bill explained patiently:
“The trail’s wiped out, the pass is drifted full of snow, and the cold’s a fright. You’d be lost inside of fifteen yards. That’s loco talk.”
“I’m going to get up.” There was offended dignity in Mr. Sprudell’s tone.
“You can’t,” said the old man shortly. “You ain’t got no pants, and your shoes is full of snow. I doubts if you has socks till I takes a stick and digs around where your tepee was.”
“Tsch! Tsch!” Mr. Sprudell’s tongue clicked against his teeth in the extreme of exasperation at Uncle Bill. By some process of reasoning he blamed him for their present plight.
“I’m hungry!” he snapped, in a voice which implied that the fact was a matter of moment.
“So am I,” said Uncle Bill; “I’m holler to my toes.”