“Sure thing. I ain’t complainin’ none. Leave me be, can’t ye?”
“I’m talking for your good, just as it was for your own good that I hammered your ugly mug.”
“Sure. I feel real good.”
Akerley laughed, then took his frying-pan in hand and went along to a green, alder-grown dip in the road. There he found water, and after drinking deep and bathing his face, neck and wrists, he filled the pan and returned to the heavy hitter. Tone drank what he could of that panful and asked that the rest be poured over his damaged face. Akerley humored him in this; after which Tone sat up groggily.
“Ready to start?” asked Akerley.
“Start nothin’!” retorted Tone, in a voice of bitter disgust. “I ain’t goin’ back nor forrards till my grub gives out or my face mends. I’m makin’ camp right here. I ain’t fit to show myself at Javet’s place nor yet back home.”
“Javet’s place? Who’s Javet?”
“Gaspard Javet. He’s an old codger got a farm back here in the woods.”
“Is it far from here?”
“Ol’ Gaspard’s farm? Seven or eight mile to the west of this. Ye turn off jist round that bend. Ye can’t miss the track.”