"It ain't no use to set there and drool like a hound pup, Jed," snapped old Christopher, cutting another slice of bacon. "We're bound in for a fortnit's explorin' trip, and we ain't got no grub to spare." The patriarch of Misery Gore drew a greasy bit of brown paper from his ragged vest, unfolded it, and took out what was apparently a long hair from his grizzly beard. He pinched the thicker end between his dirty thumb and forefinger, stroked the whisker upright, and held it before his gaping mouth. The whisker slowly bent over towards Christopher. "'Lectric!" announced the experimenter, in thick, stuffy tones, as though he were talking through a cloth. Again he gaped his toothless mouth, and the whisker bent towards the uninviting opening. "'Lectric!" He grinned at them, rolling his watery eyes from face to face to seek appreciation. It was evident that he considered the feat remarkable. "Full of it! Er huh! Full of it!" He stroked his thin fingers down his arm and slatted into the air. "Storms, huh? I know. Fair weather, huh? I know. Things to happen, huh? I know. I can tell." He hitched nearer, and looked hungrily at the bread and bacon which Christopher immediately and ruthlessly began to wrap up. "Them wireless-telegraph folks ought to know about you," grunted the guide. "Don't pay any attention to the old fool, Mr. Wade. He don't have to beg of us. Rod Ide furnishes supplies to these critters. Law says that the assessor of the nearest plantation shall do it, and then Ide puts in his bill to the State. You needn't worry about their starvin'." "You'd all see us starve on Misery Gore," wailed the old man. "You'd all see us starve!" His tone changed suddenly to weak anger. "Ide's an old hog. No tea, no tobarker." "Yes, and he ain't been so lib'ral with turkeys, plush furniture, and champagne as he ought to be," growled Christopher, relishing his irony. "If there's anything that you really need, Mr.--Mr.--" "Skeet," snapped the guide. "--Mr. Skeet, I'll speak to Mr. Ide about it when--" "Mr. Wade," broke in Christopher, "what's the need of wastin' good breath on that sculch? They get all they deserve to have. They're too lazy to breathe unless it come automatic. They let their potatoes rot in the ground, and complain about starvin'. They won't cut browse to bank their shacks, and complain about freezin'. The only thing they can do to the queen's taste is steal, and it's got so in this section that there ain't a sportin'-camp nor a store wangan that it's safe to leave a thing in." He began to stuff tins into the mouth of the meal-sack, glowering at the ancient pauper. "They nigh put me out of bus'ness guidin' hereabouts. Stole everything from my Attean camp that I left there--and it ain't no fun to tugger-lug grub for sports on your back from Castonia."