“Might as well be six hundred cents,” commented Thorpe, “it'd make you just as drunk.”
Big Junko laughed self-consciously but without the slightest resentment.
“That's all right,” said he, “but you betcher life I don't blow this stake.”
“I've heard that talk before,” shrugged Thorpe.
“Yes, but this is different. I'm goin' to git married on this. How's THAT?”
Thorpe, his attention struck at last, stared at his companion. He noted the man's little twinkling animal eyes, his high cheek bones, his flat nose, his thick and slobbery lips, his straggling, fierce mustache and eyebrows, his grotesque long-tailed cutaway coat. So to him, too, this primitive man reaching dully from primordial chaos, the great moment had yielded its vision.
“Who is she?” he asked abruptly.
“She used to wash at Camp Four.”
Thorpe dimly remembered the woman now—an overweighted creature with a certain attraction of elfishly blowing hair, with a certain pleasing full-cheeked, full-bosomed health.
The two walked on in re-established silence. Finally the giant, unable to contain himself longer, broke out again.