Hutta. Hutta.
I spilled my drink.
I looked at her. "You—you didn't—"
She looked frightened. "What's the matter?"
"Did you just sneeze?"
"Sneeze? Me? Did I—"
I said something quick and nasty, I don't know what. No! It hadn't been her. I knew it.
It was Chowderhead's sneeze.
Chowderhead. Marvin T. Roebuck, his name was. Five feet eight inches tall. Dark-complected, with a cast in one eye. Spoke with a Midwest kind of accent, even though he came from California—"shrick" for "shriek," "hawror" for "horror," like that. It drove me crazy after a while. Maybe that gives you an idea what he talked about mostly. A skunk. A thoroughgoing, deep-rooted, mother-murdering skunk.