Mr. Kincaid held the boat while Bobby stepped ashore; then made it fast, and, without bothering with the game, opened the hut and lit the candle. Bobby sat down dully. He had no further interest in life. Mr. Kincaid glanced at his disconsolate little figure humped over on the stool, and smiled grimly beneath his moustache. But he made no comment; and set about immediate construction of a fire.
Bobby relapsed into a dull lethargy which took absolutely no account of space or time. The shadows danced and flickered against the wall. He saw them, but as something outside the real centre of his consciousness. The wind howled by in gusts that shook the structure; Bobby did not care if it blew the whole thing over!
"Come, Bobby! Supper!" Mr. Kincaid broke in on his black mood.
"I don't believe I want any supper," mumbled Bobby.
Mr. Kincaid took two long steps across to him, picked him and the stool up bodily, and set him against the table.
"Now get at it," said he.
Bobby languidly tasted a piece of bread and butter.
In five minutes he was at his fifth slice, and had had four eggs and three pieces of bacon. In ten the world had brightened marvellously. In fifteen Bobby was chattering eagerly between mouthfuls, rehearsing with some excitement the different events of the day.
"To-morrow," said he, "I'm going to shoot a lot."
"Thought you weren't going to-morrow," suggested Mr. Kincaid.