“From the sound, I guess you can't.”
“You're saying a word too much there, Bill Beveridge!”
Beveridge stopped short and wheeled around. He had tied the sleeves of his coat through one suspender so that it hung about his knees and flapped when he walked. His waistcoat was open, his collar was melted to a rag; altogether he was nearly as tired and hot as his assistant.
“What do you say to sitting down a minute?” suggested Smiley, diplomatically.
But Wilson returned to the attack. “How long are you going to keep on this way, Bill?”
The obstinate quality in Wilson's voice roused a counter-obstinacy in Beveridge. He decided not to reply.
“Maybe the sand's getting into his ears so he can't hear well,” said Wilson, addressing Harper as nearly as anybody. But Pink, rather than get into the controversy, went off a little way to a spruce tree and fell to cutting off a piece of the gum.
“It's just as you like, Bill,” pursued Wilson. “Of course, it ain't any of my business,—but I just thought I'd tell you we passed that big clump of pines over there about two hours and a half ago.”
In spite of him, Beveridge's eyes sought the spot indicated.
“I don't care, you understand, Bill. I 'll go where I'm ordered. But if you will go on trusting that compass of yours, don't you think maybe we'd better be thinking about saving up what sandwiches we've got left? These Michigan woods ain't a very cheerful spot to spend the fall, unless you've planned that way, you know,—brought tents and things, and maybe a little canned stuff.”