“It ain't no good.”
“I'm about ready to agree with that, too, but at any rate it doesn't hurt them.”
“Another suicide,” was Shorty's news the following morning. “That Phillips is the one. I seen it comin' for days.”
“We're up against the real thing,” Smoke groaned. “What would you suggest, Shorty?”
“Who? Me? I ain't got no suggestions. The thing's got to run its course.”
“But that means they'll all die,” Smoke protested.
“Except Wentworth,” Shorty snarled; for he had quickly come to share his partner's dislike for that individual.
The everlasting miracle of Wentworth's immunity perplexed Smoke. Why should he alone not have developed scurvy? Why did Laura Sibley hate him, and at the same time whine and snivel and beg from him? What was it she begged from him and that he would not give?
On several occasions Smoke made it a point to drop into Wentworth's cabin at meal-time. But one thing did he note that was suspicious, and that was Wentworth's suspicion of him. Next he tried sounding out Laura Sibley.
“Raw potatoes would cure everybody here,” he remarked to the seeress. “I know it. I've seen it work before.”