Let him leave her there, and then
go back after a long time when he gets to be an old man. Fix it
up some way to make it natural. Have him go down to see her and
never come up again, see? And leave the reader in doubt as to
whether it was an accident or whether he did it on purpose."
Condy choked back a whoop and smote his knee. "Blix, you're the
eighth wonder! Magnificent--glorious! Say!"--he fixed her with a
glance of curiosity--"you ought to take to story-writing
yourself."
"No, no," she retorted significantly. "I'll just stay with my
singing and be content with that. But remember that story don't
go to 'The Times' supplement. At least not until you have tried
it East--with the Centennial Company, at any rate."
"Well, I guess NOT!" snorted Condy. "Why, this is going to be one
of the best yarns I ever wrote."
A little later on he inquired with sudden concern: "Have you got
anything to eat in the house?"
"I never saw such a man!" declared Blix; "you are always hungry."
"I love to eat," he protested.
"Well, we'll make some creamed oysters; how would that do?"
suggested Blix.
Condy rolled his eyes. "Oh, speak to me of creamed oysters!"
Then, with abrupt solemnity: "Blix, I never in my life had as many
oysters as I could eat."
She made the creamed oysters in the kitchen over the gas-stove,
and they ate them there--Condy sitting on the washboard of the
sink, his plate in his lap.
Condy had a way of catching up in his hands whatever happened to
be nearest him, and, while still continuing to talk, examining it
with apparent deep interest.
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