She came up noiselessly behind him, but his trained senses were apprised of her approach.
“Good mo’ning! How did y’u find your bedroom?” he asked, without turning from the bacon he was broiling on the end of a stick.
“Quite up to the specifications. With all Wyoming for a floor and the sky for a ceiling, I never had a room I liked better. But have you eyes in the back of your head?”
He laughed grimly. “I have to be all eyes and ears in my business.”
“Is your business of a nature so sensitive?”
“As much so as stocks on Wall Street. And we haven’t any ticker to warn us to get under cover. Do you take cream in your coffee, Miss Messiter?”
She looked round in surprise. “Cream?”
“We’re in tin-can land, you know, and live on air-tights. I milk my cow with a can-opener. Let me recommend this quail on toast.” He handed her a battered tin plate, and prepared to help her from the frying-pan.
“I suppose that is another name for pork?”
“No, really. I happened to bag a couple of hooters before you wakened.”