“It’s my neck,” said Tish coldly.
“Well, you’ve lost the head that belongs on it,” I retorted. And I went home.
We were to leave on a Monday, and the Saturday before Tish called me by telephone.
“I’ve been thinking, Lizzie,” she said. “A portion of my picture is laid in the desert. We’d better take some antisnake-bite serum.”
“Where do you get it?”
“For heaven’s sake, don’t bother me with detail,” she snapped. “Try the snake house at the Zoo.”
I did so, and I must say the man acted strangely about it.
“For snake bite?” he inquired. “Who’s been bitten?”
“Nobody’s been bitten,” I said with dignity. “I just want a little to have on hand in case of trouble.”
He looked around and lowered his voice. “I get you,” he said. “Well, I haven’t any now, but I will have next week. Eight dollars a quart. Prewar stuff.”