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He frequently said hus for us in a very deliberate way, as though it were the vogue to pronounce it so in some society in which he was proud to be at home.

"We're liable to scrap when we're alone together," he went on, "but we've been so long with each other that we can't somehow separate. Funny thing! We have a hell of a row and decide to part, and each go our different ways. And then a couple of days later I go hiking after him, and he's hiking after me, and we meets grinning, and he says: 'Well, you can't get along without me. Hope you notice my forgiving nature, coming back for you,' or some gall like that, and then we have a scrap over that gall of his and string along together for a while again," he paused, "till he gets too damn fresh again to stand," he ended.

Hank winked at me.

"Listen to him!" he said. "Well, you'll have opportunity to see which it is that makes the scraps. I hope, now you know, that you'll stay with us and keep the peace."

I nodded.

"Yes," I promised.

"All right. Now if we scrap you just say that's what you're here for, and we'll quit; that's a deal."