She ventured cautiously, after seeing that he was eating with
appetite: "How does the pin look?"
"Why, fine."
And the silence began again.
She dared not question him in that mood, so she ventured again: "The
old boy shooting left-handed--didn't he even fan the wind near you?"
"That was another bit of carelessness," said Pierre, but his smile
held little of life. "He might have known that if he _had_ shot
close--by accident--I might have turned around and shot him dead--on
purpose. But when a man stops thinking for a minute, he's apt to go on
for a long time making a fool of himself."
"Right," she said, brightening as she felt the crisis pass away, "and
that reminds me of a story about--"
"By the way, Jack, I'll wager there's a more interesting story than
that you could tell me."
"What?"
"About how that glove happened to be on the floor."
"Why, partner, it's just a glove of my own."
"Didn't know you wore gloves with a leather as soft as that."
"No? Well, that story I was speaking about runs something like this--"
And she told him a gay narrative, throwing all her spirit into it, for
she was an admirable mimic.
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