It was nearly morning when Patches was awakened by the sound of someone
moving about the kitchen. A moment he listened, then, rising, went
quickly to the kitchen door, thinking to surprise some chance night
visitor.
When Phil saw him standing there the foreman for a moment said nothing,
but, with the bread knife in one hand and one of Stella's good loaves in
the other, stared at him in blank surprise. Then the look of surprise
changed to an expression of questioning suspicion, and he demanded
harshly, "What in hell are _you_ doing here?"
Patches saw that the man was laboring under some great trouble. Indeed,
Phil's voice and manner were not unlike one under the influence of
strong drink. But Patches knew that Phil never drank.
"I was sleeping," he answered calmly. "You woke me, I suppose. I heard
you, and came to see who was prowling around the kitchen at this time of
the night; that is all."
"Oh, that's all, is it? But what are you here for? Why aren't you in
Prescott where you are supposed to be?"
Patches, because he saw Phil's painful state of mind, exercised
admirable self-control. "I supposed I had a perfect right to come here
if I wished.
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