"Nary bite," John Tarwater answered.

"Where's your outfit? Ahead?"

"Nary outfit."

"Expect to buy your grub on the Inside?"

"Nary a dollar to buy it with, friend. Which ain't so important as
a warm bite of breakfast right now."

In Anson's camp, a quarter of a mile on, Tarwater found a slender,
red-whiskered young man of thirty cursing over a fire of wet willow
wood. Introduced as Charles, he transferred his scowl and wrath to
Tarwater, who, genially oblivious, devoted himself to the fire,
took advantage of the chill morning breeze to create a draught
which the other had left stupidly blocked by stones, and soon
developed less smoke and more flame. The third member of the
party, Bill Wilson, or Big Bill as they called him, came in with a
hundred-and-forty-pound pack; and what Tarwater esteemed to be a
very rotten breakfast was dished out by Charles. The mush was half
cooked and mostly burnt, the bacon was charred carbon, and the
coffee was unspeakable.

Immediately the meal was wolfed down the three partners took their
empty pack-straps and headed down trail to where the remainder of
their outfit lay at the last camp a mile away. And old Tarwater
became busy. He washed the dishes, foraged dry wood, mended a
broken pack-strap, put an edge on the butcher-knife and camp-axe,
and repacked the picks and shovels into a more carryable parcel.