"Am always ready for company," he said, with a Scotch accent.
"Well, we're coming in to get warm."
"Vera wal."
As they went in, under the roofed shed between the cook's shanty and the other and larger shanty, Mrs. Field sniffed. Sandy led them past a large pyramid composed of the scraps of beef bones, eggshells, cans, and tea grounds left over during the winter. In the shed itself hung great slabs of beef.
It was as untidy and suggestive of slaughter as the nest of a brood of eagles.
Sandy was beginning dinner on a huge stove spotted with rust and pancake batter. All about was the litter of his preparation. Beef—beef on all sides, and tin dishes and bare benches and huge iron cooking pans.
Mrs. Field was glad to get out into the sunlight again.
"What a horrible place! Are they all like that?"
"No, my camps are not like that—or, I should say, our camps," Ridgeley added, with a smile.
"Not a gay place at all," said Field, in exaggerated reserve.