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I've a theory
that our keepers are crazy as loons; though you can't blame them,
watching us, as they must, from six o'clock in the morning until
midnight. Say, why were you put away?"
"Crazy, like yourself, I suppose." Quell grinned.
"And now we're cured. We cured ourselves by flight. How can they call us
crazy when we planned the job so neatly?"
Arved began to be interested in the sound of his own voice. He searched
his pockets and after some vain fumbling found a half package of
cigarettes.
"Take some and be happy, my boy. They are boon-sticks indeed." Quell
suddenly arose.
"Arved, what were you sent up for, may I ask?"
The poet stretched his big legs, rolled over on his back again, and
scratching his tangled beard, smoked the cigarette he had just lighted.
In the hot hum of the woods there was heard the occasional dropping of
pine cones as the wind fanned lazy music from the leaves. They could not
see the sun; its power was felt. Perspiration beaded their shiny faces
and presently they removed collars and coats, sitting at ease in
shirt-sleeves.


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