repair. Her gaze searched the bunks swiftly, and Jim was sure she was
looking for the little man behind him. "Where's your old one went?"
she repeated.

"I turned it over on a friend of mine," drawled Jim, who meant he had
deftly reversed it on himself. "It's a poor shirt that won't work both
ways."

"Ain't there nuthin' more I kin mend?" she asked.

"Not unless it's somethin' of Doc's down to your lovely little home."

"Oh, I ain't agoin' to go, if that's what you're drivin' at," she
answered, as she swiftly assembled the soiled utensils of the cuisine.
"I'll tidy up this here pig-pen if it takes a week, and you kin hop up
and come down easy."

"I wouldn't have you go for nothing," drawled Jim, squirming with
abnormal impatience to be up and doing. "Angel's visits are comin'
fewer and fewer in a box every day."

"That's bogus," answered the lady. "I sense your oilin' me over. You
git up and go and git a fresh pail of water."

"I'd like to," Jim said, convincingly, "but the only time I ever broke
my arm was when I went out for a bucket of water before breakfast."

"You ain't agoin' is what you mean, with all them come-a-long-way-round
excuses," she conjectured. "You've got the name of bein' the
laziest-jointed, mos' shiftless man into camp."