"Feet aren't wet."
"Don't talk foolishness; here are your things." The Colonel flung in the Boy's direction the usual change, two pairs of heavy socks, the "German knitted" and "the felt."
"Not wet," repeated the Boy.
"You know you are."
"Could go through water in these mucklucks."
"I'm not saying the wet has come in from outside; but you know as well as I do a man sweats like a horse on the trail."
Still the Boy sat there, with his head sunk between his shoulders.
"First rule o' this country is to keep your feet dry, or else pneumonia, rheumatism—God knows what!"
"First rule o' this country is mind your own business, or else—God knows what!"
The Colonel looked at the Boy a moment, and then turned his back. The Boy glanced up conscience-stricken, but still only half alive, dulled by the weight of a crushing weariness. The Colonel presently bent over the fire and was about to lift off the turbulently boiling pot. The Boy sprang to his feet, ready to shout, "You do your work, and keep your hands off mine," but the Colonel turned just in time to say with unusual gentleness: