chop with a white paper frill on the handle and garnished with
fresh parsley--he's the soul of consideration. He wants four
kinds of jam on the table every meal, when fresh fruit is going
to waste. He's bullied the laundryman until the poor fellow's
reached the point where he won't stop if the car's parked in
front and Casey's liable to be home; but aside from that, Casey's
all right.

"After serving time in the desert and rustling my own wood and
living on bacon and beans and sour-dough bread, I'm perfectly
willing to spend the rest of my life doing painless housekeeping
with all the modern built-in features ever invented; and buying
my bread and cakes and salads from the delicatessen around the
corner. I never want to see a sagebush again as long as I live,
or feel the crunch of gravel under my feet. I expect to die in
French-heeled pumps and embroidered silk stockings and the
finest, silliest silk things ever put in a show window to tempt
the soul of a woman. But it took just two weeks and three days
to drive Casey back to his sour-dough can."

"He craved luxury more than you seemed to do," I remembered aloud.

"He did, yes. But his idea of luxury is sitting down in the
kitchen to a real meal of beans and biscuits and all the known
varieties of jam and those horrible whitewashed store cookies and
having the noise of the phonograph drowned every five minutes by
a passing street car. Casey wants four movies a day, and he wants
them all funny. He brings home silk shirts with the stripes
fairly shrieking when he unwraps them--and he has to be thrown
and tied to get a collar on him.