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Updated: April 30, 2025
Tim Hagan Junior was not at home. But Young Dick wasted little wind in the whistling. He was debating on possible adjacent places where Tim Hagan might be, when Tim himself appeared around the corner, bearing a lidless lard-can that foamed with steam beer.
They started, shouting optimistically to each other, lights on, trouble seeming over and they stopped after the next descent, and pools of tears were in the corners of Claire's eyes. The holdback had not succeeded. Her big car, with its quick-increasing momentum, had jerked at the bug as though it were a lard-can.
Why should any one haul canned pemmican hundreds of miles into the greatest game country in the world? We made our own pemmican of the choice parts of this tender, juicy meat and we never lost appetite for it or failed to enjoy and assimilate it. A fifty-pound lard-can, three parts filled with water, was set on the stove and kept supplied with joints of meat.
"Wat's de matter on your face?" said Poleon. "You been fightin'?" "I ain't shaved in a long time, and this here excitement has kind of shattered my nerves. I didn't have no lookin'-glass, neither, in my shack, so I had to use a lard-can cover. Does it look bad?" "Not to my way of thinkin'," said Gale, allaying "No Creek's" anxiety. "It's more desp'rate than bad, but it sort of adds expression."
"Ain't seen yeh since yer old man died," Tim Hagan commented. "Well, you're seein' me now, ain't you?" was Young Dick's retort. "Say, Tim, I come to see you on business." "Wait till I rush the beer to the old man," said Tim, inspecting the state of the foam in the lard-can with an experienced eye. "He'll roar his head off if it comes in flat." "Oh, you can shake it up," Young Dick assured him.
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