at place, only just about that
time we smelled something frying. There was also a most delectable
sputtering sound as of fat meat turning over on a hot skillet; but just
the smell alone was a square meal for a poor family. The meeting
adjourned by acclamation. Just because a man has a soul is no reason he
shouldn't have an appetite.

That Johnny certainly could cook! Served on china dishes upon a
cloth-covered table, we had mounds of fried steaks and shoals of fried
bacon; and a bushel, more or less, of sheepherder potatoes; and green
peas and sliced peaches out of cans; and sourdough biscuits as light as
kisses and much more filling; and fresh butter and fresh milk; and
coffee as black as your hat and strong as sin. How easy it is for
civilized man to become primitive and comfortable in his way of eating,
especially if he has just ridden ten miles on a buckboard and nine more
on a mule and is away down at the bottom of the Grand Canon--and there
is nobody to look on disapprovingly when he takes a bite that would be a
credit to a steam shovel!

[Illustration: BECAUSE A MAN HAS A SOUL IS NO REASON HE SHOULDN'T HAVE
AN APPETITE]

Despite all reports to the contrary, I wish to state that it is no
trouble at all to eat green peas off a knifeblade--you merely mix them
in with potatoes for a cement; and fried steak--take it from an old
steak-eater--tastes best when eaten with those tools of Nature's own
providing, both hands and your teeth. An hour passed--busy, yet
pleasant--and we were both gorged to the gills and had reared back with
our cigars lit to enjoy a third jorum of black coffee apiece, when
Johnny, speaking in an offhand way to Bill, who was still hiding away
biscuits inside of himself like a parlor prestidigitator, said:

"Seen any of them old hydrophobies the last day or two?"

"Not so many," said Bill casually. "There was a couple out last night
pirootin' round in the moonlight. I reckon, though, there'll be quite a
flock of 'em out tonight. A new moon always seems to fetch 'em up from
the river."

Both of us quit blowing on our coffee and we put the cups down. I think
I was the one who spoke.

"I beg your pardon," I asked, "but what did you say would be out
tonight?"

"We were just speakin' to one another about them Hydrophoby Skunks,"
said Bill apologetically. "This here Canon is where they mostly hang out
and frolic 'round."

I laid down my cigar, too. I admit I was interested.

"Oh!" I said so