“What's the matter with you?” he asked.
“Nothing,” the little man answered.
“I know that,” Smoke said. “That's why I asked you. You're Amos Wentworth. Now why under the sun haven't you the scurvy like all the rest?”
“Because I've exercised,” came the quick reply. “There wasn't any need for any of them to get it if they'd only got out and done something. What did they do? Growled and kicked and grouched at the cold, the long nights, the hardships, the aches and pains and everything else. They loafed in their beds until they swelled up and couldn't leave them, that's all. Look at me. I've worked. Come into my cabin.”
Smoke followed him in.
“Squint around. Clean as a whistle, eh? You bet. Everything shipshape. I wouldn't keep those chips and shavings on the floor except for the warmth, but they're clean chips and shavings. You ought to see the floor in some of the shacks. Pig-pens. As for me, I haven't eaten a meal off an unwashed dish. No, sir. It meant work, and I've worked, and I haven't the scurvy. You can put that in your pipe and smoke it.”
“You've hit the nail on the head,” Smoke admitted. “But I see you've only one bunk. Why so unsociable?”
“Because I like to be. It's easier to clean up for one than two, that's why. The lazy blanket-loafers! Do you think that I could have stood one around? No wonder they got scurvy.”
It was very convincing, but Smoke could not rid himself of his dislike of the man.
“What's Laura Sibley got it in for you for?” he asked abruptly.