“Angela,” he said hoarsely. “We got days to go yet....”
She put his arm aside and reached the pile of kit. The sack in which his food was carried was a white canvas one, easily distinguished from the rest. She turned over one or two things and found it—flat and empty.
“Gone—all gone!”
She stood with it hanging from her fingers as a suspicion entered her mind. Slowly she came to him, her bosom throbbing madly.
“What have you done with it?”
“I guess I’ve bin a bit too free with it.”
“What have you done with it?” she reiterated.
“Wal, it’s gone, and squealing won’t help matters.”
“Where has it gone?”
“Where does food usually go? See here, Angela—I’m right sorry about it all. Maybe 264 I’ll shoot a bird to-morrow, and then I’ll have a gormandizing jag.”