“Come right in, an’—show your Mum,” he said. “Hark at ’em. That’s Perse. I’d know his laugh in a thousand. Say, we’re missing all sorts of a time.”
The two men were back at their camp. They were seated over the remains of their generous camp fire. It had sadly fallen from its great estate. It was no longer a prodigal expression of their hospitality, but a mere, ruddy heap of hot cinders with a wisp of smoke rising out of its glowing heart. Still, however, it yielded a welcome temperature to the bitter chill of the now frowning night.
Chilcoot remained faithful to his up-turned camp kettle, but Bill concerned himself with no such luxury. He was squatting Indian-fashion on his haunches, with his hands clasped about his knees. It was a moment of deep contemplation before seeking their blankets, and both were smoking.
It was the older man who broke the long silence. He was in a mood to talk, for the events of the night had stirred him even more deeply than he knew.
“They felt mighty good,” he observed contentedly. “Them queer bits o’ life.”
His gaze remained on the heart of the fire for his words were in the manner of a thought spoken aloud.
Bill nodded.
“Pore kids,” he said.
In a moment the older man’s eyes were turned upon him, and their smiling depths were full of amiable derision.