THE TORRENTS OF SPRING 13
The telegrapher eyed him suspiciously. After all, what was this man to him?
"Is it hard to be a telegrapher?" Scripps asked. He wanted to ask the man outright if this was Petoskey. He did not know this great northern section of America, though, and he wished to be polite.
The telegrapher looked at him curiously.
"Say," he asked, "are you a fairy?"
"No," Scripps said. "I don't know what being a fairy means."
"Well," said the telegrapher, "what do you carry a bird around for?"
"Bird?" asked Scripps. "What bird?"
"That bird that's sticking out of your shirt." Scripps was at a loss. What sort of chap was this telegrapher? What sort of men went in for telegraphy? Were they like composers? Were they like artists? Were they like writers? Were they like the advertising men who write the ads in our national weeklies? Or were they like Europeans, drawn and wasted by the war, their best years behind them? Could he tell this telegrapher the whole story? Would he understand?
"I started home," he began. "I passed the Mancelona High School—"
"I knew a girl in Mancelona," the telegrapher said. "Maybe you knew her. Ethel Enright."
It was no good going on. He would cut the story sort. He would give the bare essentials. Besides, it was beastly cold. It was cold standing there on the wind-swept station platform. Something told him it was useless to go on. He looked over at the deer lying there in a pile, stiff and cold. Perhaps they, too, had been lovers. Some were
