I threw him a rope. “Yes. Nightmare—indigestion—too much newspaper before retiring.”
He caught the rope. “That's correct! I had a hell of a foolish dream for a growed-up man. You'd not think it of me.”
“Oh, yes, I should. I've had them after prolonged lobster and champagne.”
“Ah,” he murmured, “prolonged! Prolonged is what does it.” He glanced behind him. “Steve came back—”
“In your lobster dream,” I put in.
But he missed this rope. “Yes,” he answered, with his eyes searching me. “And he handed me the paper—”
“By the way, where is that?” I asked.
“I built the fire with it. But when I took it from him it was a six-shooter I had hold of, and pointing at my breast. And then Steve spoke. 'Do you think you're fit to live?' Steve said; and I got hot at him, and I reckon I must have told him what I thought of him. You heard me, I expect?”
“Glad I didn't. Your language sometimes is—”
He laughed out. “Oh, I account for all this that's happening just like you do. If we gave our explanations, they'd be pretty near twins.”