“No.”
“Same here. Never had the disease. Perez, he's had symptoms every once in a while, but nothin' lastin'. Jerry's the only one of us three that's been through the mill. His wife died twenty year ago. I don't know as I told you, but Jerry and Perez and me are keepin' house down by the shore. That is, we call it keepin' house, but—”
Here the Captain broke off and seemed to meditate.
Ralph Hazeltine forbore to interrupt, and occupied himself by scrutinizing the buildings that they were passing. They were nearing the center of the town now, and the houses were closer together than they had been on the “depot road,” but never so close as to be in the least crowded. Each house had its ample front yard, and the new arrival could smell the box hedges and see, now and then, the whiteness of the kalsomined stones that bordered a driveway. It was too dark for the big seashells at the front steps to be visible, but they were there, all the same; every third house of respectability in Orham has them. There was an occasional shop, too, with signs like “Cape Cod Variety Store,” or “The Boston Dry Goods Emporium,” over their doors. On the platform of one a small crowd was gathered, and from the interior came shouts of laughter and the sound of a tin-panny piano.
“That's the billiard saloon,” volunteered Captain Eri, suddenly waking from his trance. “Play pool, Mr. Hazeltine?”
“Sometimes.”
“What d'ye play it with?”
“Why, with a cue, generally speaking.”
“That so! Most of the fellers in there play it with their mouths. Miss a shot and then spend the rest of the evenin' tellin' how it happened.”
“I don't think I should care to play it that way,” said Ralph, laughing.