“Certainly, Buck,—as many minutes as you like.”
Buck discovered Randolph Fitts and Michael Malone seated before the fire. He drew back.
“I'd like to see you outside,” he said nervously.
“Well, what is it?” asked Percival, stepping outside and closing the door.
Buck led him around the corner of the hut.
“It ain't so windy here,” he explained. “Awful weather, ain't it?”
“What's troubling you, Buck? Put on your cap, you idiot. You'll take cold.”
“Plumb nervousness,” said Buck. “Same as if I was pulling up to the start with fifty thousand on the nag. I want to ask your advice, A. A. Just a little private matter. Oh, nothing serious. Nothing like that, you know. I just thought maybe you'd—Gosh, I never saw it snow like this up home, did you? Funny, too, when you think how tropical we ought to be. There was a bad blizzard a coupla years ago in Buenos Aires, but—”
“Come to the point, Buck. What's up?”
Buck lowered his voice. “Well, you see it's this way. I'm thinking of getting married. Tomorrow, if possible. Don't laugh! I don't see anything to laugh at in—”