Gibson used to tread so unevenly on his boots that the heels
were turned nearly upwards, and he walked more on the uppers than on
the soles, therefore his required all the more repairing. Picking up
one of my boots that I had just mended, Gibson looked very hard at it,
and at last said, "How do you manage to wear your boots so straight?"
"Oh," I said, "perhaps my legs are straight." He rejoined, "Well,
ain't mine straight too?" I said, "I don't know; I don't see them
often enough to tell," alluding to his not bathing. "Well," he said at
last, with a deep sigh, "By G--"--gum, I suppose he meant--"I'd give a
pound to be able to wear my boots as straight as you. No, I'm damned
if I wouldn't give five-and-twenty bob!" We laughed. We had some rolls
of smoked beef, which caused the ants to come about the camp, and we
had to erect a little table with legs in the water, to lay these on.
One roll had a slightly musty smell, and Gibson said to me, "This
roll's rotten; shall I chuck it away?" "Chuck it away," I said; "why,
man, you must be cranky to talk such rubbish as throwing away food in
such a region as this!" "Why," said he, "nobody won't eat it." "No,"
said I, "but somebody will eat it; I for one, and enjoy it too.
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