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Updated: September 23, 2025
The tradition runs that her lover, who was a bark-peeler and wielded the spud, was killed by his rival, who felled a tree upon him while they were at work. The girl, who helped her mother cook for the 'hands, was crazed by the shock, and that night stole forth into the woods and was never seen or heard of more.
'He ain't got the hang of spud- skinnin'. No more he 'ad. 'E was simply cannibalisin' 'em. "'I want to know what 'e 'as got the 'ang of, says 'Op, obstructed-like. 'Watch 'im, 'e says. 'These shoulders were foreign-drilled somewhere.
Rawhide Jones laughed at the cook's discomfiture and went back to the door, where he washed his face and hands at a little basin, plastered his wet hair down as his companions had already done, and dropped into easy conversation with the heavy, round-shouldered, yellow-haired man sitting across the room from Conniston. "Looks like the Ol' Man means real business, huh, Spud?"
Spud followed it, clinging with hands and feet to the steep-pitched floor; but some sudden impulse seized him and compelled him to stop at intervals while he drew a pistol from his belt. Its grip was of steelite that rang sharply as a bell when he struck it upon the walls.
But the blue light of an ascending area was about them, and Spud O'Malley was shouting from the control room: "Sure, and we're off, Mr. Bullard. Now do ye come up here and tell me all about it but I warn you, I'll not be believin' a word " Up From Earth Chet had plenty of time in which to acquaint Pilot O'Malley with the facts.
Then he straightened and looked at his companion. "No, Spud, you're not going," he said. "This is my job. You'll stay with the ship. You and I make a rather small army: we don't know yet what we may be up against, and we mustn't risk all our forces in one advance. I'll see what is there; and, in case anything happens, you can take the ship back.
He was helping Spud to his feet as he spoke. "Mac, me bhoy," the pilot told his assistant, "the log has it all, the whole story. There'll be no trouble for you at all." He yanked quickly at the port-opening switch, and the big steel disk backed slowly out of its threaded seat and swung wide. Chet drew back one involuntary step as a blast of icy wind drove stinging snow into his face.
Lieutenant "Spud" Murphy was in charge of this, and his antics kept us all in roars of laughter he jumped around and "rooted" for those bombs as though they were his favourite players in the National League. When one went over, he would, like the rest of us, jump up on the firing-step to see it light.
Then the levers moved again, and the ship went hard-a-port as Chet caught again one fleeting glimpse of shadow below that could only be the markings of a building he had known well. "Hold her there, Spud!" he shouted. "He'll be back in a minute or two! He'll get us next time!" Chet was reaching for the straps of a 'chute.
I say those last corrections seem never to be finished. A plague upon the weeds! Every day, when I walk in my own little literary garden-plot, I spy some, and should like to have a spud, and root them out. Those idle words, neighbor, are past remedy. That turning back to the old pages produces anything but elation of mind. Would you not pay a pretty fine to be able to cancel some of them?
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