occasionally whetted one to a still more 

 razor edge and threw it into a near by 

 tree, where it stuck, quivering. 



There was no conversation, but I did 

 not feel forgotten. 



I turned my back on the cook and 

 gazed into the fire, a miserable smould- 

 ering affair, and speculated on why I 

 had never before noticed how much 

 spare time there was in a minute. It 

 may have been five of these spacious 

 minutes, it may have been fifteen, that 

 had passed away when the cook ap- 

 proached me. I could feel him com- 

 ing. He came very close to me and 

 to the fire. 



He put on some beans. 



Then he went away, and there were 

 many more minutes, many more. 



Then something touched my arm. 

 At last it had come (what we expect, 



