Mr. Quirk spared his caller's further feelings by betraying no triumph whatever. Rather plaintively he declared: "I got ROOM enough here. It ain't exactly room I need." Again he coughed.
"Here! Get a move on you, quick," Linton ordered, forcefully. "The idea of you setting around hatching out a lungful of pneumonia bugs! Git! I'll bring your bedding."
Mr. Quirk rose with alacrity. "Say! Let's take my stove over to your tent and warm her up. I bet you're cold?"
"N-no! I'm comfortable enough." The speaker's teeth played an accompaniment to this mendacious denial. "Of course I'm not sweating any, but—I s'pose the stove would cheer things up, eh? Rotten night, ain't it?"
"Worst I ever saw. Rotten country, for that matter."
"You said something," Mr. Linton chattered. He nodded his head with vigor.
It was wet work moving Jerry's belongings, but the transfer was finally effected, the stove was set up and a new fire started. This done, Tom brought forth a bottle of whisky.
"Here," said he, "take a snifter. It'll do you good."
Jerry eyed the bottle with frank astonishment before he exclaimed: "Why, I didn't know you was a drinkin' man. You been hidin' a secret vice from me?"
"No. And I'm not a drinking man. I brought it along for—you.
I—er—that cough of yours used to worry me, so—"