Then a full-bodied shout of “Jimmie!” a gasping wait, a thud, and Scott’s voice again.
Lou sat on a dead tree, watching the hard faces in the starshine. And, having more than ordinary perceptions, he knew that in the dumbness of the whare someone suffered more than Jimmie. At the second pitch Jimmie was cursing. By the sixteenth sobs and prayers galloped together, and Danny said:
“A lot of sense there is in takin’ the use out o’ him, isn’t there? Give him one more fur luck, yer galapods, an’ be done with it.”
“Nineteen,” said Mogger, and Scott took up the burden again.
It was a scream of agony that brought Douglas out with a face that the boys did not know.
“For God’s sake—stop it—stop it! Or chuck me ef you want to kill someone.”
Mogger grinned with his hard hands gripped on the blanket.
“He’s takin’ his gruel alone ter-night, Ted,” he said. “There ain’t no use in yer comin’ along wi’ the spoon. We’ll give him every bit he kin carry—there’s more blankets ef this one don’t hold.”
All was done with in time, and Jimmie lay on the frosty earth, helplessly sea-sick. Lou chased the pitiful Danny before him to the tent.
