And that was all said about the wreck.
“It’s not unlike an Adirondack camp,” she suggested, looking around at the open-faced, palm-thatched shanty with its usual hangings of blankets and wet clothing, and its smoky, tin-pan bric-à-brac.
Her blue eyes swept all in rapid review—the guns leaning against the tree; the bunch of dead bluebill ducks hanging beyond; the improvised table and bench outside; the enormous mottled rattlesnake skin tacked lengthways on a live-oak.
“Are there many of those about?” she inquired.
“Very few”—he waited to control the voice which did not sound much like his own—“very few rattlers yet. They come out later.”
“That’s amiable of them,” she said, with a slight shrug of her shoulders.
There was a pause.
“I hope you are well,” he ventured.
“Perfectly—and thank you. I hope you are well, Jack.”
“Thank you, Kathleen.”