“You’re not qualified,” said I.
“Not?”
“You haven’t sufficient command of the English language.”
“What!” cried Scipio; for vocabulary is his chief pride and I had actually touched him.
“No. You couldn’t cook up two paragraphs of your mother tongue that would defy any sane human intelligence.”
“They have done worse than that to me,” he said ruefully. “They have lost me my season’s job. The party I was to take out read them laws same as you did, and they stayed back East and made other plans. That’s what I got in last night’s mail”
“Well, I haven’t stayed back East,” I said. “The fishing’s about done, but I want an excuse for another month or two of outing. My things can get here in twelve days—we’ll hunt, and I’ll be your season’s job. And,” I added, “now I shall have time to study the ducks.”
We launched then into discussion of horses and camp outfit, copiously arguing what the legislature would let a man hunt, pursue, or kill in a season it declared to be open for no big game at all, until from eleven the clock went round to noon; and in the kitchen the voice of Mrs. Culloden was heard, calling clearly to her young bridegroom in the corral—calling too clearly.
“Well, Jimsy,” the voice said, “are you going to get me any wood for this stove—or ain’t you?”
Our discussion dropped; we sat still; it was time for Scipio to be getting back across the river to his own cabin and dinner. He rose, put on his hat, and stood looking at me for a moment. Then he took his hat off and scratched his head, glancing toward the kitchen.