Joan had no idea to advance, but with the lessening of her fear and the gradual clearing of her mind she felt that she would not much longer be witless.
“We've got to eat and get some rest,” said Jim, sensibly.
“I'll try to eat—but I don't think I'll be able to sleep tonight,” replied Joan.
Jim took her to a place kept by a Mexican. It appeared to consist of two tents, with opening in front and door between. The table was a plank resting upon two barrels, and another plank, resting upon kegs, served as a seat. There was a smoking lamp that flickered. The Mexican's tableware was of a crudeness befitting his house, but it was clean and he could cook—two facts that Joan appreciated after her long experience of Bate Wood. She and Jim were the only customers of the Mexican, who spoke English rather well and was friendly. Evidently it pleased him to see the meal enjoyed. Both the food and the friendliness had good effect upon Jim Cleve. He ceased to listen all the time and to glance furtively out at every footstep.
“Joan, I guess it'll turn out all right,” he said, clasping her hand as it rested upon the table. Suddenly he looked bright-eyed and shy. He leaned toward her. “Do you remember—we are married?” he whispered.
Joan was startled. “Of course,” she replied hastily. But had she forgotten?
“You're my wife.”
Joan looked at him and felt her nerves begin to tingle. A soft, warm wave stole over her.
Like a boy he laughed. “This was our first meal together—on our honeymoon!”
“Jim!” The blood burned in Joan's face.