He was like a firearm
polished and incrusted with gems and hanging in a connoisseur's
wall-case; Josh was like a battle-tested rifle in the sinewy hands
of an Indian in full war-paint. Arkwright showed that he had
physical strength, too; but it was of the kind got at the
gymnasium and at gentlemanly sport--the kind that wins only where
the rules are carefully refined and amateurized. Craig's figure
had the solidity, the tough fiber of things grown in the open air,
in the cold, wet hardship of the wilderness.
Arkwright's first glance of admiration for this figure of the
forest and the teepee changed to a mingling of amusement and
irritation. The barbarian was not clad in the skins of wild
beasts, which would have set him off superbly, but was trying to
get himself arrayed for a fashionable ball. He had on evening
trousers, pumps, black cotton socks with just enough silk woven in
to give them the shabby, shamed air of having been caught in a
snobbish pretense at being silk. He was buttoning a shirt torn
straight down the left side of the bosom from collar-band to end
of tail; and the bosom had the stiff, glassy glaze that advertises
the cheap laundry.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25