“Yeah––sure is,” responded Ed Moran, who was low-browed and dark and had an ugly jaw.
“Yeah––damn hot,” testified Jim Bloom. “How’s Californy for weather?”
“Oh-h––it has all kinds, same as here.” Lance did not want to talk about California just then, but he followed the lead easily enough. “You can get anything you want in California. In two hours you can go from twenty-five feet of snow to orange groves. You can have it all green, fruit 285 trees and roses blooming in midwinter, or you can hit into desert worse than anything Idaho can show.”
“Yep––that’s right, all right. Great place, Californy,” Chilly tried to make his voice sound enthusiastic, and failed. “Great place.”
“Speaking about climate––” Lance sat down on a corner of the table, eased his trousers over his knees, crossed his tan Oxfords and began a story. It was a long story, and for some time it was not at all apparent that he was getting anywhere with it. He shuffled the deck of cards while he talked, and the keno game, interrupted when he began, trailed off into “Who’s play is it?” and finally ceased altogether. That was when Lance’s Jewish dialect began to be funny enough to make even Chilly Winters laugh. At the end there was a general cachinnation.
“But that’s only a sample of the stuff they pull out there, on tourists,” said Lance, when the laughter had subsided to a few belated chuckles. “There’s another one. It isn’t funny––but I’m going to make it funny. You’ll think it’s funny––but it isn’t, really.”
He told that one and made them think it was funny. At least they laughed, and laughed again when he had finished.
“Now here’s another. This one really is funny––but you won’t feel like laughing at it. I’ll tell it so you won’t.”
He told that story and saw it fall flat. “You see?” He flipped the cards, tossed them on the table with a whimsical gesture. “It isn’t what you do in this world––it’s how you do it that counts. I’m sitting on your keno game, am I? All right, I’ll get off.”