After we had finished gnawing our bones, George sat very quiet as if brooding over some great problem. Finally he arose, brought his camp bag to the fire, and, resuming his seat, went low into the recesses of the bag. Still holding his hand in the bag, he looked at me and grinned.
"Well?" said I.
"Sh-h-h," he replied, and slowly withdrawing his hand held up—an ounce package of cut plug tobacco!
I stared at the tobacco, and then again caught George's eye. Our smiles became beatific.
"I've been savin' this for when we needed it most," said George. "And I guess the time's come."
He handed me the package, and I filled my pipe, long unused to anything save leaves from the teapot and red willow bark. Then George filled his pipe.
From the fire we took brands and applied them to the tobacco. Deep, deep were our inhalations of the fragrant smoke.
"George," said I, "however in the world could you keep it so long?"
"Well," said George—puff, puff—"well, when we were gettin' so short of grub"—puff—"thinks I"—puff—"the time's comin'"—puff, puff—"when we'll need cheerin' up"—puff—"and, says I,"—puff—"I'll just sneak this away until that time comes."
"George," said I, lying back and watching the smoke curl upward in the light of the fire, "you are not a half bad sort of a fellow."