“Fetches ’em every time,” said Uncle Billy.  “Better nor fancy soap.”

Their guest laughed bitterly.  “Well, I’m going to leave it to you.  I reckon to cut the whole concern to-morrow, and ‘lite’ out for something new.  It can’t be worse than this.”

The two partners looked grieved, albeit they were accustomed to these outbursts.  Everybody who thought of going away from Cedar Camp used it first as a threat to these patient men, after the fashion of runaway nephews, or made an exemplary scene of their going.

“Better think twice afore ye go,” said Uncle Billy.

“I’ve seen worse weather afore ye came,” said Uncle Jim slowly.  “Water all over the Bar; the mud so deep ye couldn’t get to Angel’s for a sack o’ flour, and we had to grub on pine nuts and jackass-rabbits.  And yet—­we stuck by the camp, and here we are!”

The mild answer apparently goaded their guest to fury.  He rose from his seat, threw back his long dripping hair from his handsome but querulous face, and scattered a few drops on the partners.  “Yes, that’s just it.  That’s what gets me!  Here you stick, and here you are!  And here you’ll stick and rust until you starve or drown!  Here you are,—­two men who ought to be out in the world, playing your part as grown men,—­stuck here like children ‘playing house’ in the woods; playing work in your wretched mud-pie ditches, and content.  Two men not so old that you mightn’t be taking your part in the fun of the world, going to balls or theatres, or paying attention to girls, and yet old enough to have married and have your families around you, content to stay in this God-forsaken place; old bachelors, pigging together like poorhouse paupers.  That’s what gets me!  Say you like it?  Say you expect by hanging on to make a strike—­and what does that amount to?  What are your chances?  How many of us have made, or are making, more than grub wages?  Say you’re willing to share and share alike as you do—­have you got enough for two?  Aren’t you actually living off each other?  Aren’t you grinding each other down, choking each other’s struggles, as you sink together deeper and deeper in the mud of this cussed camp?  And while you’re doing this, aren’t you, by your age and position here, holding out hopes to others that you know cannot be fulfilled?”

Accustomed as they were to the half-querulous, half-humorous, but always extravagant, criticism of the others, there was something so new in this arraignment of themselves that the partners for a moment sat silent.  There was a slight flush on Uncle Billy’s cheek, there was a slight paleness on Uncle Jim’s.  He was the first to reply.  But he did so with a certain dignity which neither his partner nor their guest had ever seen on his face before.

“As it’s our fire that’s warmed ye up like this, Dick Bullen,” he said, slowly rising, with his hand resting on Uncle Billy’s shoulder, “and as it’s our whiskey that’s loosened your tongue, I reckon we must put up with what ye ‘r’ saying, just as we’ve managed to put up with our own way o’ living, and not quo’ll with ye under our own roof.”