“Do yuh mean to say that this here inspector’s life is worth more to you than what your own is? That don’t seem reasonable.”
“I intend to give you four pounds of flour in the morning,” Corporal Rand smiled. “Now do you mean to tell me that your lives are worth more to me than my own. Just figure it out.”
Bill and Thomas exchanged worried, doubtful glances, and commenced to figure. For twenty long minutes they threaded their way through a deep and abysmal mental swamp.
“I can’t make it out,” acknowledged Thomas.
“Me neither,” grumbled Bill. “You’re a bloomin’ martyr an’ no mistake.”
“We ain’t got nothin’ we can give you,” lamented Thomas, feeling in all of his pockets.
Then suddenly his face brightened.
“Here,” he announced proudly, presenting it, “is somethin’ yuh can have. Take it. Yuh never can tell. Mebbe it’ll save your life.”
Corporal Rand received the gift in the spirit that it was given. Nor did he belittle such a gift. Too well he knew the vagaries of the North, the unexpected turns of fortune, good and bad, the little inconsequential things upon which hinge life or death itself. Moisture had gathered in his eyes as carefully, almost lovingly, he put the gift away in an inner pocket:
Three fishhooks and a ball of string!