As the opening of each revealed its contents, fresh, clean,
and inviting, Bridge closed one eye and cocked the other up
at Billy.
"Did he die hard?" he inquired.
"Did who die hard?" demanded the other.
"Why the dog, of course."
"He ain't dead as I know of," replied Billy.
"You don't mean to say, my friend, that they let you get
away with all this without sicing the dog on you," said Bridge.
Billy laughed and explained, and the other was relieved--
the red mark around Billy's wrist persisted in remaining
uppermost in Bridge's mind.
When they had eaten they lay back upon the grass and
smoked some more of Bridge's tobacco.
"Well," inquired Bridge, "what's doing now?"
"Let's be hikin'," said Billy.
Bridge rose and stretched. "'My feet are tired and need a
change. Come on! It's up to you!'" he quoted.
Billy gathered together the food they had not yet eaten, and
made two equal-sized packages of it. He handed one to
Bridge.
"We'll divide the pack," he explained, "and here, drink the
rest o' this milk, I want the pail."
"What are you going to do with the pail?" asked Bridge.
"Return it," said Billy. "'Maw' just loaned it to me."
Bridge elevated his eyebrows a trifle. He had been mistaken,
after all.
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