"You brute," cried Crosby, hoarse with anger. A sob came from his tired companion and Crosby turned to her, his heart full of tenderness and—shame, perhaps. Tears were streaming down her cheeks and her shoulders drooped dejectedly.
"What shall we do?" she moaned. Crosby could frame no answer. He gently took her hand in his and held it tightly. She made no effort to withdraw it.
"I'm awfully sorry," he said softly. "Don't cry, little woman. It will all end right, I know."
Just then Austin reentered the barn. Without a word he strode over and emptied a pan of raw meat on the floor in front of the dog. Then he calmly departed, but Crosby could have sworn he heard him chuckle. The captives looked at each other dumbly for a full minute, one with wet, wide-open, hurt eyes, the other with consternation. Gradually the sober light in their eyes faded away and feeble smiles developed into peals of laughter. The irony of the situation bore down upon them irresistibly and their genuine, healthy young minds saw the picture in all of its ludicrous colorings. Not even the prospect of a night in mid-air could conquer the wild desire to laugh.
"Isn't it too funny for words?" she laughed bravely through her tears.
Then, for some reason, both relapsed into dark, silent contemplation of the dog who was so calmly enjoying his evening repast.
"I am sorry to admit it, Mr. Crosby, but I am growing frightfully hungry," she said wistfully.
"It has just occurred to me that I haven't eaten a bite since seven o'clock this morning," he said.
"You poor man! I wish I could cook something for you."
"You might learn."