"Here, you son of the shiftless one, get back here and drag the
grub to this table," yelled one of the men at the miners' table.
After that Alf remained on duty until all hands had been fed.
Then he tried to slip away again, only to be roped by a lariat in
the hands of the new cook.
"Let me catch you trying to sneak away from work again, and I'll
cowhide you with this rope," growled the cook. "Why are you trying
to sneak away before your work is finished?"
"I'm almost dead for a smoke," said Alf.
"Smoke, is it? You stay here and wash the dishes. Don't try
to get away again until I tell you you can go. If you do---but
you won't," finished the cook grimly.
Alf worked away industriously. At last this outdoor kitchen work
was finished.
"Now I can go, can't I?" spoke up Alf, hopefully. "Say, I'm perishing
for want of a smoke."
"Stay and have a man's smoke with me," said the cook. "Here,
hold this between your teeth."
Alf drew back, half-shuddering from the blackened clay pipe, filled
with strong tobacco, which the cook passed him.
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