“And all the more,” continued Esau, “because old Gunson seems to have taken us into custody like, and orders us to do this and do that.”
“But—”
“Now do let me finish,” grumbled Esau. “I know what you’re going to say, and I’ll say it for you. You’re allus getting into scrapes, and he’s getting you out of ’em.”
“And you?” I said, laughing.
“Hah! that’s better,” cried Esau, pouncing on a piece of bacon and turning it over. “I do like to see you laugh a bit; seems to make things cheery. But I say, when is he going his way and going to let us go ours?”
“How’s the bacon getting on?” said Gunson, entering, and the rough board door swung to. “Ah, nice and brown, and the kettle close upon the boil. Know how to make tea, Gordon? Not our way in camp I know. Look here.”
He turned out nearly a handful out of the common tin canister, waited till the water in the open kettle was bubbling all over, and then threw in the tea, lifted the kettle off, and stood it down.
“There,” he said, “that’s camp fashion. The old lady’s going to bring us something to drink it out of;” and as he spoke the settler’s wife brought in two tin pint mugs and a cracked and chipped basin, which she banged roughly on the table.
Gunson gave me a peculiar look as the sour woman turned away.
“I say, Mrs—I don’t know your name.”