The magazine failed to rouse his
interest. He let it drop idly to his knees and with eyes closed
reverted to his never-failing source of entertainment.
And then that slim, poetic guy he turned and looked me in the eye,
"....It's overland and overland and overseas to--where?"
"Most anywhere that isn't here," I says. His face went kind of queer.
"The place we're in is always here. The other place is there."
Bridge stretched luxuriously. "'There,'" he repeated. "I've
been searching for THERE for many years; but for some reason
I can never get away from HERE. About two weeks of any
place on earth and that place is just plain HERE to me, and I'm
longing once again for THERE."
His musings were interrupted by a sweet feminine voice
close by. Bridge did not open his eyes at once--he just sat
there, listening.
As I was hiking past the woods, the cool and sleepy summer woods,
I saw a guy a-talking to the sunshine in the air,
Thinks I, "He's going to have a fit--I'll stick around and watch a bit,"
But he paid no attention, hardly knowing I was there.
Then the girl broke into a merry laugh and Bridge opened
his eyes and came to his feet.
"I didn't know you cared for that sort of stuff," he said.
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