"No; fucoids."
"Eh?"
"Fossils, you know; a sort of seaweed. The only kind we can discover in this formation."
"My little freshwater college wasn't strong on the sciences," said Shelby, speculating whether this particular crotchet required humoring. As the young man's own interest in the topic seemed languid, he decided against this course and frankly told him that he wanted to talk with him. "Suppose we move away from the clatter of the drills," he suggested.
Graves assented, and they shifted from beneath the overhanging bank of sandy loam to the shade of an unused derrick.
"Smoke?" queried the politician, affably.
Graves declined a cigar, explaining, "I merely take a cigarette now and then, usually after dinner."
Shelby's contempt for cigarettes was boundless, but he dissembled his opinion, and lit the strongest cigar in his case.
"It's up to me, Bernard," he confessed with a laugh. "It's my move, and I'm right on the spot like a little man, though humble pie isn't my favorite tidbit by a large majority."
"Meaning what?" asked Graves, without animation.