“Oh, that was only to oblige you, Herr Schmidt. I thought you might like to have your wife and children taken care of.”
“I take care of them myself.”
“To be sure you will, if you don’t kick the bucket. I see you’re riled, Herr Schmidt. My advice is that you smoke a pipe. It will make you feel better.”
This suggestion appeared to strike the German favorably, for though he did not deign an articulate reply, he pulled out a pipe, which appeared to have seen much service, and was soon smoking placidly, and to judge from appearance, much more comfortable in mind.
Meanwhile the road had entered the forest and the trees cut off what scanty daylight yet remained.
“How long are these woods?” inquired Gates of the driver.
“Two miles or thereabouts, sir.”
“It is a lonely place?”
“Yes, sir; but that isn’t the worst of it,” said the driver, with a certain significance in his tone.
“Isn’t the worst of it? What is, then?”