“Mr. Wade,” broke in Christopher, “what’s the need of wastin’ good breath on that sculch? They get all they deserve to have. They’re too lazy to breathe unless it come automatic. They let their potatoes rot in the ground, and complain about starvin’. They won’t cut browse to bank their shacks, and complain about freezin’. The only thing they can do to the queen’s taste is steal, and it’s got so in this section that there ain’t a sportin’-camp nor a store wangan that it’s safe to leave a thing in.”
He began to stuff tins into the mouth of the meal-sack, glowering at the ancient pauper.
“They nigh put me out of bus’ness guidin’ hereabouts. Stole everything from my Attean camp that I left there—and it ain’t no fun to tugger-lug grub for sports on your back from Castonia.”
When the last knot in the leather thong was twitched close and the bountiful meal-bag was closed, old Jed abandoned hope and wheedling. He brandished the whisker at Christopher, his moth-speckled hand quivering.
“Old butcherman!” he screamed. “’Twas my Jed. Off here!” He set the edge of his palm against his arm.
Christopher’s face grew hard under his frosty beard, but his cheeks flushed when Wade gazed inquiringly at him.
“It’s a thief’s lookout when there’s a spring-gun in a camp,” he muttered. “There was a sign on the door sayin’ as much. It ain’t my fault if folks has been too busy stealin’ to learn to read. If you ever hear anything about it up this way, Mr. Wade, you needn’t blame me. They had their warnin’ by word o’ mouth. I’m sorry it happened, but—”
“What happened?”
“Young Jed Skeet joined the ‘It-’ll-git-ye Club’ a year ago with a fin shot off at the elbow.”