“Kind of think you’d better not try to make thet explorin’ trip this a’ternoon. It’s heavy goin’.”
“Guess I kin hump along somehow. Jim’s comin’ up with the team fur me t’morrow, so I figure we’d best be joggin’ over there to Timberland.”
“Jest as you’re wishful. Me and Dave’s ready.”
“Kin I go?” asked Swickey.
“Reckon you better stay and keep Smoke comp’ny,” replied her father. “Dogs gits tol’able lonesome when they’s alone, jest the same as folks. They git to thinkin’ ’bout their famblys and friends and—”
“Has Smoke got a fambly?” asked Swickey.
“Wishin’ they was back home ag’in same as thet Robi’son Crusoe feller, all alone on a big island s’rrounded by cannibells jest dyin’ to git a taste of white meat biled tender—”
“They roasted ’em,” corrected Swickey.
“Thet’s right—roasted; and they’s no tellin’ what thet dog might do. He might take a notion to go home by hisself—”
“I’d shet the door,” said Swickey.