Since there seemed to be no question of ceremony, Prime made the guest welcome, heaping his tin plate and pouring tea for him in the spare cup. The small man ate as if he were half starved, and was saving of speech during the process, though the roving eyes seemed to be doing double duty. The meal devoured, he produced a black clay pipe with a broken stem and uttered a single word, "Tabac'?" and when the want was supplied he crumbled himself a pipeful from the twist which Prime handed him.
Prime filled his own home-made pipe, and at its lighting the guest began a curt inquisition.
"W'ere you come from?"
Prime explained without going into any of the kidnapping details.
"You campin' out for fon, mebbe, yes?" was the next query.
"A little that way," said Prime.
"You shoot wiz ze gon? W'ere all dat game w'at you get?"
"It isn't the game season," Prime parried. "We haven't tried to shoot anything."
"But you 'ave ze gon. Lemme see 'um," holding out a hand for the rifle.
Prime passed over the gun nearest at hand and drew the other one up within reach. The inquisitive supper guest looked the weapon over carefully and seemed to be trying to read something in the scratches on the stock.