“Vell, vell, there ain’t much harm done except putting my supper back half an hour. Put up your money, my boy, and join me.”
Then he righted the utensils, and whistling a lively air, prepared the meal anew. And this he did with an adroitness that proved the task to be by no means an unusual one.
Within half an hour, he had made a pot of coffee, a pan of biscuits and a savory stew, and we were soon discussing this supper very amiably together.
After supper he washed out the dishes and utensils in a brook near by, and lying at full length on the ground, composed himself for a smoke.
All this time I had been regarding him in silence, but with considerable curiosity, and I had about made up my mind that he was a gipsy, on his way to join his tribe, when he startled me by saying, abruptly:
“Look ’ere!”
I intimated that I was all attention.
“Who are you?” he asked, bluntly.
“Jack Wood,” I answered, promptly, although a trifle nervously.
“My name is Miles Norris,” he rejoined, after a long pause. “I’m a wender of physics and knickknacs.”