Pritchard turned over on his side and looked at him. Cigars had
for many weeks been an unknown thing, and he was smoking a
corn-cob pipe full of coarse tobacco.
"Stumbled across a joke anywhere?" he asked.
"I'm afraid no one but myself would see the humor of it,"
Tavernake answered. "I was thinking of those days in London; I
was thinking of Beatrice's horror when she discovered that I was
wearing ready-made clothes, and the amazement of Elizabeth when
she found that I hadn't a dress suit. It's odd how cramped life
gets back there."
Pritchard nodded, pressing the tobacco down into the bowl of his
pipe with his forefinger.
"You're right, Tavernake," he agreed. "One loses one's sense of
proportion. Men in the cities are all alike. They go about in
disguise."
"I should like," Tavernake said, inconsequently, "to have Mr.
Dowling out here."
"Amusing fellow?" Pritchard inquired.
Tavernake shook his head, smiling.
"Not in the least," he answered, "only he was a very small man.
Out here it is difficult to keep small. Don't you feel it,
Pritchard? These mountains make our hills at home seem like
dust-heaps. The skies seem loftier. Look down into that valley.
It's gigantic, immense."
Pritchard yawned.
"There's a little place in the Bowery," he began,--
"Oh, I don't want to know any more about New York," Tavernake
interrupted. "Lean back and close your eyes, smell the cinnamon
trees, listen to that night bird calling every now and then
across the ravine.
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