“No—only a scratch. My knife—I—I was cutting”—hesitating—“cutting sticks for the fish.”
If she had not hesitated, he might not have examined her so minutely. As it was she looked up at him irresolutely and then away. Over her head, beyond the edge of the shack, he saw the young pine-tree that she had placed for a roof support.
“Ah!” he muttered. But he understood. And knocking his pipe out against his heel, quietly rose. It was raining still, not gently and fitfully, as it had done earlier in the evening, but steadily, as though nature had determined to compensate with good measure for the weeks of clear skies that had been apportioned.
“I’ve got to get to work,” he said resolutely.
“At what?”
“The shack you began——”
“No.”
She answered so shortly that he glanced at her. Her head was turned away from him.
“I mean it,” she insisted, still looking into the darkness. “You can do no more to-night. You must sleep here.”