CHAPTER II

Which Repeats, for the Most Part, What Jim Campbell Said to Me and What
I Said to Him


"Jim," said I, "what is the matter with me?"

Jim, who was seated in the ancient and dilapidated arm-chair which
was the finest piece of furniture in the boathouse and which I always
offered to visitors, looked at me over the collar of my sweater. I used
the sweater as I did the arm-chair when I did not have visitors. He was
using it then because, like an idiot, he had come to Cape Cod in April
with nothing warmer than a very natty suit and a light overcoat. Of
course one may go clamming and fishing in a light overcoat, but--one
doesn't.

Jim looked at me over the collar of my sweater. Then he crossed
his oilskinned and rubber-booted legs--they were my oilskins and my
boots--and answered promptly.

"Indigestion," he said. "You ate nine of those biscuits this morning; I
saw you."

"I did not," I retorted, "because you saw them first. MY interior is in
its normal condition. As for yours--"

"Mine," he interrupted, filling his pipe from my tobacco pouch, "being