"Zeke, you lazy loon," cried Nat Atkinson, "how many pipes have
you smoked to-day? If you'd smoke less and forage and dun the
commissary more, we'd have a little fresh meat once in a hundred
years."
"Yes, just about once in a hundred years!" snarled Zeke.
"YOU find something to keep fat on, anyhow. We'll broil you some
cold night. Trot out your beans if there's nothing else."
"Growl away," retorted Zeke. "'Twon't be long before I'll be
eating chickens and pumpkin-pie in Opinquake, instead of cooking
beans and rusty pork for a lot of hungry wolves."
"You'd be the hungriest wolf of the lot if you'd 'a' been picking
and shovelling frozen ground all day."
"I didn't 'list to be a ditch-digger!" said Zeke. "I thought I was
going to be a soldier."
"And you turned out a cook!" quietly remarked Zeb Jarvis.
"Well, my hero of the smashed shovel, what do you expect to be--
Old Put's successor? You know, fellows, it's settled that you're
to dig your way into Boston, tunnel under the water when you come
to it. Of course Put will die of old age before you get half
there.
Pages:
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445