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Thomas Stevens smiled quietly to himself as he lighted his fifth cigar and sent curling smoke-rings ceilingward. "But how about the people of Tattarat?" I asked. "Kind of rough, wasn't it, to leave them flat with famine?" And he answered, laughing, between two smoke-rings, "Were there not the fat dogs?" "Tell you what we'll do; we'll shake for it."
Otherwise he was a good sort, and a handy man on trail or over a fire. "We'd had a hard time together and were badly knocked out when we plumped upon Tattarat. Lost outfits and dogs crossing a divide in a fall blizzard, and our bellies clove to our backs and our clothes were in rags when we crawled into the village.
"And now we'll drink," he said; and later, at the bar, when he lowered his glass: "Reminds me of a little brew I had up Tattarat way. No, you have no knowledge of the place, nor is it down on the charts.
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