The cook did not turn his head; he studied Kit.
“Ye’ll not have got supper yet?”
Kit said he had not, and the cook pointed to the bunk-house door.
“Ye ken something about music. Come away in.”
“Speed up! We want supper,” shouted the workmen, and the cook and Kit started for the shack in front of a noisy mob.
CHAPTER XIII
THE COOK’S MUSICIAN
Kit did not know where he would get breakfast, and he indulged his appetite. The food was good and all that bothered him was he could not copy the workmen’s speed. Bacon, fried potatoes, beans and slabs of pie vanished; the men drained cans of tea and shouted for fresh supplies. They were muscular fellows. Although they were Western, Kit thought their type simpler, and, in a way, more primitive than the mechanics he had known. The shipyard workers were sportsmen, politicians, and sometimes philosophers. At the engine shops one heard much about racing, football and social economics. It looked as if the Canadians concentrated on their occupation, and now they frankly concentrated on their supper. In fact, Kit felt the rude feast was marked by something of a Homeric touch.
The men’s clothes were thin, and one saw their bodies were molded on classical lines; sometimes an unconscious pose was statuesque. Then one got a hint of careless, optimistic confidence. The bridge gang obviously did not bother; they labored, fought, and trusted their luck. Kit felt the gang and the bunk-house harmonized. The piles of food, rusty stove, and battered tin lamps were properly in the picture. All was rude and vigorous, and had nothing to do with modern cultivation.
Before Kit was altogether satisfied the men were gone, and the cook began to carry off the plates. Kit helped and afterwards they lighted their pipes.
“If ye’ll get your fiddle, I’ll let ye see how yon march should go,” the cook said by and by.