Mastodonia
“It’s strange how one will picture someone mentally before ever meeting him. I suppose it was his name that did it; I had pictured McCallahan as a little gnome of a man, suave, round faced, snow white hair, with an unhurried grace. In actuality, he was a big man and no longer young, but younger than I had pictured him. His hair was turning and had reached the iron gray stage; his face was cragged, like a block of rough wood that someone had chopped into a face with a dull hatchet. His hands were... like hams. Instinctively, I liked him.
“How is the fence coming along?” he asked.
“It’s going up,” I told him. “We’ll build right through the weekend. No Saturday or Sunday off.”
“Double-time, I suppose.”
“I don’t know about that,” I said. “I left that up to Ben.”
“This Ben is a good man?”
“He’s been my friend,” I said, “for the greater part of my life.”
“If you’ll allow me,” he said, “I thought you and Ben were magnificent in that tyrannosaur bit.MoreLess
“How is the fence coming along?” he asked.
“It’s going up,” I told him. “We’ll build right through the weekend. No Saturday or Sunday off.”
“Double-time, I suppose.”
“I don’t know about that,” I said. “I left that up to Ben.”
“This Ben is a good man?”
“He’s been my friend,” I said, “for the greater part of my life.”
“If you’ll allow me,” he said, “I thought you and Ben were magnificent in that tyrannosaur bit.MoreLess
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