‘Well, if you’d like to. But I never did think much of martyrdom if it’s going to be uncomfortable.’

‘Huh! Think of the lousy camel drivers’ huts we’ll have to sleep in along the road to Samarkand.’

‘And think of what a joke it’ll be on us if we wake up in one of those huts and find it’s on the wrong road. HOWEVER!’

Front Table of Contents ← Prev Next →

https://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/l/lewis/sinclair/prodigal/chapter23.html

Last updated Sunday, March 27, 2016 at 11:57

The Prodigal Parents, by Sinclair Lewis

Chapter 24

The Daisy Dell Cabins were thin and tall, with a list to leeward; they were of clapboards, once painted white, but the raw pine had soaked up the paint. The yard before them was lined with gravel and cinders and inhabited by a shamefaced dog given to constant scratching. Something more had been done with the ‘café’, the camp’s central building, a four-room shanty with a public room fresh painted a bright yellow and containing chairs and tables in booths, and a counter for five-cent bars of decayed candy, cigarettes, pies, and ‘souvenirs’ in a way of china ash trays lettered ‘Greetings from Butiful Daisy Dell’.

Pa and Ma Stickle were the proprietors. Pa had a moustache apparently made of raw cotton, which needed changing, and the tails of his collarless shirt should have been tucked in oftener, and Ma had smut on her nose. Yet they were friendly as old milk-route horses, and seemed instantly to recognize Fred as one of their own disreputable race of vagabonds.

When Fred had registered — he wrote it down ‘Frederick Williams, N.Y.’, so that he might not be traced — Pa Stickle whispered, ‘Say, neighbour, of course we haven’t got a licence here, but a fellow I don’t know his name left some applejack and I thought maybe you might be thirsty after driving . . .’

Fred drank, then choked, gurgled, looked around as though wondering who had hit him, and immediately became hilarious. Hazel had a finger of applejack in ginger-ale, hiccupped, murmured, ‘Gracious sakes alive!’ and began to giggle. When she heard Fred laughing at her, she stared at him with mild bovine disapproval and suddenly became as hilarious as he.

They did not dine till seven, two hours later, but they were enchanted out of the flow of time. They told Pa Stickle all about themselves and listened while Pa narrated that he had been a ship’s cook, a vaudeville dancer, an arctic explorer and (since Fred and Hazel seemed to have swallowed all this, as safely as they had the applejack) a trader in the Solomon Isles.

‘That’s a grand old boy, and I’ll bet anyway five per cent of his stories are true,’ glowed Fred, as Pa departed to bring their hamburg steak with fried onions.

Hazel was more or less serious. ‘But d’you think we ought to start off our journey by associating with such low people?’

‘Low? Low? Thank God they’re low! After Sara, Pa tastes good to me — like a mutton chop after a diet of cheese soufflé. I love to be low. Like getting back to earth. Provided it ain’t Cousin Enos Tillery’s earth. Don’t want any earth in my ears!’