"They never do," said Jaffrey Bretton.
"'Tain't near likely there's enough gas," deprecated the Outlaw.
"There never is," said Jaffrey Bretton.
With a gesture of sheer weariness the Outlaw submitted to his fate.
"Oh, very well this time," he said, "but I'm going to move. I 141 likes you fine, Mr. Bretton, but I sure am a-going further off. What with Lost Man and Martha this here Gulf is getting too crowded."
Cocking his head abruptly toward the sound of metal ringing on metal, Jaffrey Bretton gestured toward the mangrove-shadowed cove.
"There's good old Lost Man now," he said, "tinkering with your engine."
"Oh—Lost Man's all right," admitted the Outlaw, "only he ain't got any tact."
"Oh, shucks!" repeated Jaffrey Bretton. "Trot along, I say! . . . But go over to the food tent first and pick out your trade for the cat skins. Whatever's fair, you know? Anything you please. . . . Strawberries, asparagus, chili con carne— anything, you know, except caviar."
"Yes—I know," rallied the Outlaw. With the slightest possible accentuation of his pace he started up the beach.