“What have you got?” Gin smiled and watched the smoke. “Oh, you’ve got a swell Navajo belt.”
“Yes, a belt and a half dozen shirts I wouldn’t dream of wearing if they weren’t part of the uniform, and a lot of silver junk that I’m sick of looking at. I’d sell it if I didn’t need it for the effect.”
“But of course there’s the experience. Many a girl of your age is hanging around in New York or Chicago trying to catch a husband so she can stop playing the typewriter eight hours a day. This is fun. Honestly it is: think of the city, and the dirt!”
“Experience.” Flo pronounced it carefully, with a burlesque tone of rapture. “You like that word. It’s the same thing as adventure, isn’t it?”
“Just about.”
“Yeah. I used to have ideas about adventure, too.”
“Oh, you’re old and weary. Forget it.”
“No, I’m telling you an idea. I think that adventure isn’t worth a damn unless you can talk about it afterwards. It’s all in the story. I know.”
“Well, go ahead and tell the story. Who’s stopping you?”
“Who wants to hear it? The couriers don’t want to hear about it; they have the same thing every day. I can’t talk to the dudes about it. They just want to hear how many Indians are born every year.”