"I'm a-going to get supper," he said to Eve. "There'll be twenty-three plates." And to Smith: "Hal -- you help Eve wait on the table. And if anybody acts up rough you slam him on the jaw -- don' argue, don't wait -- just slam him good, and I'll come on the hop."
"Who are the strangers, dad?" asked Eve.
"Don't nobody know 'em, girlie. But they ain't State Troopers. They talk like they was foreign. One of 'em's English -- the big, bony one with yellow hair and mustache."
"Did they give any names?" asked Smith.
"You bet. The stout, dark man calls himself Hongri Picket. French, I guess. The fat beak is a fella names Sard. Sanchez is the guy with a face like a Canada priest -- Jose Sanchez -- or something on that style. And then the yellow skinned young man is Nichole Salzar; the Britisher, Harry Beck; and that good lookin' dark gent with a little black Charlie Chaplin, he's Victor Georgiades."
"What are those foreigners doing in the North Woods, Clinch?" enquired Smith.
"Oh, they all give the same spiel -- hire out in a lumber camp. But they ain't no lumberjacks," added Clinch contemptuously. I don't know what they be -- hootch runners maybe -- or booze bandits -- or they done something crooked som'ers r'other. It's safe to serve 'em drinks."
Clinch himself had been drinking. He always drank when preparing to cook.
He turned and went into the kitchen now, rolling up his shirt sleeves and relighting his clay pipe.