“Got your pistol?”
“Yes, borrowed Max’s. Thought I might meet wolves. I’ve heard ’em howl down here once or twice.”
“They’re ’round on snowy nights, but they’re cowardly. Any whisky?”
“No; and I don’t want any.”
“Hm! I’m not so sure about it. Whisky’s always good, I’m thinkin’, especially on a cold night like this.”
“You and Old Bob could agree on one point, at any rate.”
“Me and Squint-eyes agree?—not much! Still,—whisky’s good.”
“Well, I’ll wager you a jug o’ molasses, or a new hat, that I can get to town better to-night without whisky than with it.”
“Mebbe you’re right. I know whisky’s done me a heap more harm ’n it ever did me good, or any other fellow I ever heard of. Still, whisky’s good!”
Len laughed at this defiance of rhyme and reason, and shaking hands, started away, Morris calling out as a last word that if he lost the trail in the snow, or got bewildered, the only proper thing to do was to build a fire and camp “right there,” instead of working into worse difficulties.