He set his lunch pail down moodily, and shook himself much as a spaniel shakes the water from his shaggy coat; he threw himself on a bench before the fire with a tired sigh; and rested his elbows on his knees, his chin dropped in his upturned palms.
Sam shivered as some of the flying particles of snow struck him.
“Can’t you be a little more careful; you’ll give me my death of cold yet!” he grumbled.
“I did not intend to wet you,” answered Philip very gently, not changing his position.
“You must be down in the dumps! What is the matter with you?” said Sam irritably.
This habit of half-grumbling and fault-finding had become so common with Sam that Phil made no reply. After a minute’s silence, he began again:
“Aren’t we going to have any supper to-night? It’s most infernal monotonous sitting here alone all day with nothing to read, and not even a square meal.”
Phil arose wearily, and began laying the cloth on the table; soon the bacon was sizzling merrily, the teakettle bumping the lid up and down for very joy, and the fragrance of coffee filled the room.
Phil took from the box nailed against the wall a small dish of peaches, a couple of slices of cake, and a little cheese, which he put beside Sam’s plate.
“Supper is ready,” said he gravely.