“Got any pan?”
“Mucho pan.”
Douglas leaned out, took the hook-pots with the care of one well used to guarding an allowance, gave a pot to Sard, and then salved the bread, which was supplied in yellow hot buns split and filled with sausage and peppers.
“That’s more homelike,” Doug said. “Heave round and eat: it will give you strength.”
Sard did not want to eat: the thought of the hot dough made him faint, but he sipped the broth and felt the better for it. He was warm again, there in the shelter of the car under the tarpaulins. With the warmth came a queer feeling in his skin, all altered by the poisons which had afflicted it, that the norther was going to be a bad one. He felt too weak to look at the heaven, but he said to Doug:
“Is it very black to the northward?”
“A bit dark.”
“Much lightning?”
“Yes. It has been flashing a little.”
“We’re in for a bad norther.”