"My Chief said every man ought to have a shouk (a hobby) of
sorts, and he took the trouble to ride a day out of his way to
show me a belt of black soil that was just the thing for cotton."
"Ah! What was your Chief like?" Stalky asked, in his silkiest
tones.
"The best man alive--absolutely. He lets you blow your own nose
yourself. The people call him"--Adam jerked out some heathen
phrase--"that means the Man with the Stone Eyes, you know."
"I'm glad of that. Because I've heard from other quarters"
Stalky's sentence burned like a slow match, but the explosion was
not long delayed. "Other quarters!" Adam threw out a thin hand.
"Every dog has his fleas. If you listen to them, of course!" The
shake of his head was as I remembered it among his father's
policemen twenty years before, and his mother's eyes shining
through the dusk called on me to adore it. I kicked Stalky on the
shin. One must not mock a young man's first love or loyalty.
A lump of raw cotton appeared on the table.
"I thought there might be a need.
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