I was
born in Chicago, the smokiest, windiest old burg in the United States."
"It's a big place, isn't it?" Hazel kept the conversation going. "I
don't know any of the American cities, but I have a girl friend working
in a Chicago office."
"Yes, it's big--big and noisy and dirty, and full of wrecks--human
derelicts in an industrial Sargasso Sea--like all big cities the world
over. I don't like 'em."
Wagstaff spoke casually, as much to himself as to her, and he did not
pursue the subject, but began his meal.
"What sort of meat is this?" Hazel asked after a few minutes of
silence. It was fine-grained and of a rich flavor strange to her
mouth. She liked it, but it was neither beef, pork, nor mutton, nor
any meat she knew.
"Venison. Didn't you ever eat any before?" he smiled.
"Never tasted it," she answered. "Isn't it nice? No, I've read of
hunters cooking venison over an open fire, but this is my first taste.
Indeed, I've never seen a real camp fire before."
"Lord--what a lot you've missed!" There was real pity in his tone. "I
killed that deer to-day. In fact, the little circus I had with Mr.
Buck was what started Nigger off into the brush. Have some more
coffee.
Pages:
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102