it would fade from a red tan to a yellow. Deep as it was now, it paled at the first-heard sound of the approaching voice. The man threw a soul of anger and hatred into his ears and listened.
'About a month?' the voice said 'Yes. I heard of his leaving Winnipeg on the twentieth. I went on to Vancouver and found he wasn't there. Then I got news of a fellow stopping off here, and, of course, it couldn't be anybody else. He's my brother-in-law, and I've got a letter for him which I'm pledged to put into his hands.'
The answering voice was the voice of the man of the shanty. It sounded very rough and uncultured after the dandified drawl it followed, but it sounded manlier for the contrast, too.
'He's a queer fellow,' said the first speaker; 'but this is the queerest trick I've known him play. Tell me, is he--is he drinking at all?'
'No,' the other answered. 'He's not drinking. The first day he was here he promised to put a load of shot into me if ever I gave him li
For those who like this sort of thing, this is the sort of thing they like. Man afflicted with long-term overindulgence hides out in the wilderness to dry out. Unfortunately decides to write a memoir, with which we are in turn afflicted.
Possibly satisfactory for those who revel in introspection, though I admit to skipping 95% of it.
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