“Anything worth shooting around here?” he asked, pulling the armchair toward him and sitting.
I think I did not let him see how astonished I was at his attitude. I tried not to.
“Why yes,” I answered, “in the season. Plenty of coots, some black duck, and quail and partridge in the woods.”
“That so! Peters, that carpenter of mine, said something of the sort, I remember, but I wouldn't believe him under oath. I could shoot HIM with more or less pleasure, but there seems to be no open session for his species. Where's your launch?”
“Out yonder.” I pointed to the Comfort at her moorings. He looked, but made no comment. I rose and put the gun in the rack. Then I returned to my chair. He swung around in his seat and looked at me.
“Well,” he said, grimly, but with a twinkle in his eye, “the last time you and I chatted together you told me to go to the devil.”
This was quite true and I might have added that I was glad of it. But what would be the use? I did not answer at all.
“I haven't gone there yet,” he continued. “Came over here instead. Got dry yet?”
“Dry?”
“Yes. You were anything but dry when I saw you last night. Have many such cloudbursts as that in these parts?”