Love of Life and Other Stories. Jack London

he said. “Then I can take off my moccasins and he comfortable.”

      The door slammed behind him. For a long minute there was silence. The man continued in the same position on the bed. The woman sat on the grub-box, facing him.

      “What are you going to do?” she asked abruptly.

      Messner looked at her with lazy indecision. “What do you think I ought to do? Nothing scenic, I hope. You see I am stiff and trail-sore, and this bunk is so restful.”

      She gnawed her lower lip and fumed dumbly.

      “But-” she began vehemently, then clenched her hands and stopped.

      “I hope you don’t want me to kill Mr.-er-Haythorne,” he said gently, almost pleadingly. “It would be most distressing, and, I assure you, really it is unnecessary.”

      “But you must do something,” she cried.

      “On the contrary, it is quite conceivable that I do not have to do anything.”

      “You would stay here?”

      He nodded.

      She glanced desperately around the cabin and at the bed unrolled on the other bunk. “Night is coming on. You can’t stop here. You can’t! I tell you, you simply can’t!”