“We been two days a makin’ it,” Jim vouchsafed cheerfully. “Last night we slept out on the snow.”
“You seem some stove up.” Uncle Bill eyed Dill critically. “And looks like you have fell off twenty pounds.”
“Stove up!” exclaimed Dill plaintively. “Between Jim’s cooking and that hill I took up four notches in my belt. I wouldn’t make that trip again in winter if the Alaska Treadwell was awaiting me as a gift at the other end.”
“You’ll git used to it,” consoled Uncle Bill, “you’ll learn to like it when you’re down there makin’ that there ‘juice.’ I mind the time I went to North Dakoty on a visit—I longed for one of these hills to climb to rest myself. The first day they set me out on the level, I ran away—it took four men to head me off.”
“We found where we kin develop 250,000 jolts,” Porcupine Jim announced.
“Volts, James,” corrected Mr. Dill, and added, dryly, “Don’t start in to put up the plant until I get back.”
He was coming back then—he was! Figuratively, all Ore City fell at his feet, though strictly only two scrambled for the privilege of unbuckling his snow-shoes, and only three picked up his bag.
XI
The Ghost at the Banquet