“Well, I’ll be teetotally ——!” exclaimed Sig’s voice from the doorway but Ren never looked up. “Come on and help me, Sig. I reckon I’m all cut to shoestrings.”
“You ain’t alone, Ren.”
Ren lifted his head and looked at Sig.
“Pickled prairie-dogs!” he groaned. “What happened to you? Did you—huh—turn Oscar loose?”
“After seven years uh hard fightin’ and hardships I manages to break his holt,” declared Sig dismally. “I’m jist uh walkin’ hunk uh Hamburger steak, Ren, and I feels that when I removes my clothes I’ll be no more. That cat jist simply prospected every piece uh meat on my frame. In my war-sack under th’ bunk there’s uh roll uh stickin’ plaster. You wrap me up and I’ll do th’ same fer you, Ren. I’ve done played my last joke—absolutely. I suppose th’ shed is empty?”
“Uh ha,” nodded Ren. “I’m apologizin’, Sig.”
“Aw, Ren, I reckon misery likes company.”
“Well,” drawled Ren, “she’s got it.”
Half an hour later, with adhesive plaster covering most of their bodies they laid down on the bunk and rolled more cigarettes.
“I wonder which one was Oscar?” mused Sig aloud, but Ren was deep in thought and made no answer.