"Fresh with me? Why, you poor, one-horned yearling, d'you think there's
anybody in Eldara man enough to get fresh with me?"
Bert retreated a step; caution was a moving element in his nature. From
a vantage point behind a table, however, he ventured: "Then what is
wrong?"
Her woe, apparently, was greater than her wrath.
She said sadly: "I dunno, Bert. I ain't the man I used to be--I mean,
the woman."
He waited, his small eyes gentle. What woman can altogether resist
sympathy, even from a fat man and a cook? Not even the redoubtable soul
of a Sally.
She confessed: "I feel sort of hollow and gone--around the stomach,
Fatty."
"Eat," suggested the cook. "I just took out a pie that would--"
"But it ain't the stomach. It's like bein' hungry and wantin' no food.
Fatty, d'you think I'm sick?"
"You look kind of whitish."
"Fatty, I feel--"
She hesitated, as though too great a confession were at her lips, but
she stumbled on: "I feel as if I was afraid of somethin', or someone."
"That," said Bert confidently, "ain't possible. It's the stomach, Sally.
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