Explore "The Riddle of Three-Way Creek" by Ridgwell Cullum on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Jim Pryse was leaning against one of the verandah posts of his home in the Valley of Hope. And, just behind him, lounging in a low-seated chair, was a red-headed creature, freckled, clean-shaven. He was a man of perhaps thirty years. Certainly not more. And he was dressed in somewhat similar fashion to Pryse himself. The difference lay in the fact that he wore no coat or waistcoat over the yellowish silk shirt, whose sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and revealed forearms which suggested tremendous physical strength.
"Talk it out, Larry," Jim said, as the other broke off from his half-laughing, wholly serious protest, and helped himself to a drink from the Rye whisky and water that stood on the small table close beside him. "Notions stick with me when I get 'em into my fool head. They take a deal of shifting. Still, I always reckon there's things other folks can see that I'm mostly blind to, and I like to know about 'em."