"Grub pile," he remarked in a conversational tone of voice.
The group arose as one man and moved upon the heap of cutlery and of
tin plates and cups. From the open fifty-pound lard pails and
kettles they helped themselves liberally; then retired to squat in
little groups here and there near the sources of supply. Mere
conversation yielded to an industrious silence. Sadly the cook
surveyed the scene, his arms folded across the dirty white apron, an
immense mental reservation accenting the melancholy of his
countenance. After some moments of contemplation he mixed a
fizzling concoction of vinegar and soda, which he drank. His
rotundity to the contrary notwithstanding, he was ravaged by a
gnawing dyspepsia, and the sight of six eggs eaten as a side dish to
substantials carried consternation to his interior.
So busily engaged was each after his own fashion that nobody
observed the approach of a solitary figure down the highway of the
river. The man appeared tiny around the upper bend, momently
growing larger as he approached. His progress was jerky and on an
uneven zigzag, according as the logs lay, by leaps, short runs,
brief pauses, as a riverman goes. Finally he stepped ashore just
below the camp, stamped his feet vigorously free of water, and
approached the group around the cooking-fire.
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