“No; and my name is not Jim Redmond; but you ought to have done your assessment work; you can’t very well blame him, whoever he may be.”
“No; p’raps not,” said Phil slowly, and it seemed somewhat doubtingly; then he added: “What makes me sore is that it was looking so good. Well, there’s no use in wearing mourning, I suppose;” and he tried to laugh cheerfully. After supper, notwithstanding the inclemency of the night Phil trudged patiently the long six miles into town, that Sam might have the coveted books, and a tender steak for his breakfast.
Sam evinced no desire to return to his own cabin; on the contrary he said, in his peculiarly soft tones, “I guess we’d better finish the winter together, hadn’t we, Phil? I’m not very strong yet, and one fire will do for both; of course I’ll put up my share of the grub.”
“Oh, that’s all right; I’m glad of your company,” replied Phil.
Sam must have considered his company a sufficient compensation, for he contributed nothing toward the expense of living; he took the most and the best of everything; the choicest of the food; the only chair; the warmest corner of the fireplace; and the only good bed. If he ever saw Phil’s self denial, he made no sign. If Phil ever thought him selfish, he did not show it; that which he gave he gave royally.
One evening Phil came in from work; it was bitter cold; the stars snapped and twinkled; the frost showed a million glittering points in the white moonlight; the ground cracked like tiny pistol shots; the wind whistled shrilly, and cut like a whiplash.
Phil shook himself, and threw off his cap and coat:
“This is a scorcher and no mistake,” he stretched out his hands basking in the warmth.
Sam had hovered over the fire all day, reading. He leaned back in his chair, a tantalizing light in his eyes.
“You’ve been working the Mollie Branscome,” he asserted, rather than asked.