“Perhaps I made a mistake coming up here,” he bitterly remarked.
“Not a bit,” cried Bub, clapping his shoulder. “Don’t git huffy because I tell you what I believe to be true. You needed to come here. But you are the type that goes back to town and makes a record. You needed to come here to fill out that scrawny frame of yours. Once you’ve done that you’ll make your way almost anywhere.”
“Some time I’ll tell you more about myself,” Stanley slowly began, when Bub interrupted him curtly:
“I haven’t asked you to tell anything about yourself. Nor am I a bit curious. I took you to be a bang-up good fellow—notice, I am saying fellow instead of feller—I know you are that kind of fellow. Now let’s forget all about everything but something to eat. Git out that open bake sheet and I’ll show you how to make real bread. Then we’ll catch some trout and have a snack.”
Bub’s idea of a snack was a meal sufficiently hearty even to satisfy the fears of an Abner Whitten.
That night, after everything had been put in shape, the two remained seated before the fire for more than an hour, loath to go to sleep.
