"Well, I guess NOT!" snorted Condy. "Why, this is going to be one
of the best yarns I ever wrote."

A little later on he inquired with sudden concern: "Have you got
anything to eat in the house?"

"I never saw such a man!" declared Blix; "you are always hungry."

"I love to eat," he protested.

"Well, we'll make some creamed oysters; how would that do?"
suggested Blix.

Condy rolled his eyes. "Oh, speak to me of creamed oysters!"
Then, with abrupt solemnity: "Blix, I never in my life had as many
oysters as I could eat."

She made the creamed oysters in the kitchen over the gas-stove,
and they ate them there--Condy sitting on the washboard of the
sink, his plate in his lap.

Condy had a way of catching up in his hands whatever happened to
be nearest him, and, while still continuing to talk, examining it
with apparent deep interest. Just now it happened to be the
morning's paper that Victorine had left on the table. For five
minutes Condy had been picking it up and laying it down, frowning
abstractedly at it during the pauses in the conversation.
Suddenly he became aware of what it was, and instantly read aloud
the first item that caught his glance: