Out of the Primitive

by Robert Ames Bennet

"Yes. Needed a change. Too much indoors work; so I got out."

"Uh?" mumbled McGraw in slow astonishment. "No booze?"

"No. That's the funny part of it. Didn't touch a drop of anything. I used to be afraid of it when I wasn't on a tear, but now I don't even think of it. Seems as if I couldn't get up a thirst if I tried. Can't make it out."

"Sick," commented McGraw.

"No. I'm eating like a horse, and getting my strength back, hand over fist."

"In your head," qualified McGraw, touching his forehead.

"Guess that's it. Must be. Never before opened the throttle and cut loose, to come to a dead stop this way. It's as if you got up a full head of steam, and then drew the fire. Mighty queer, though,—my head is as clear as crystal."

"Huh," grunted McGraw ambiguously. "Come to take your job—assistant?"

Blake's face darkened. "No, just dropped by on my way to Canada. Thought I'd have a look at my—" he paused, and altered his statement—"that I'd see how your old scrap-heap is getting along."

"Huh."