Limekiller!

Pause. Limekiller, and nor he alone, eyed the door again. But the door was too far, the crowd was too thick, and, besides, a possible charter to go sailing off to see some nice Old Kingdom Chipchak ruins (The most damnably dull-looking ruins ever ruined, and quite over canopied with undergrowth and overgrowth a lot more troublesome than if with luscious woodbine, sweet musk- roses, or with eglantine). was, well, a possible charter. And, so, not to be spat upon.

Even a charter de facto, if not de jure; possible conversation, “Now, Mr. Limekiller, we here in Government do not wish to make things difficult for you, but we have our laws as any nation has and so we must investigate possible violations thereof; is it true that from Wednesday last to Monday this, you were carrying a party of tourists on excursion, and without having a proper license for same, sir?” _ “Well, Chief Supervisor, no, not really, I was merely showing some visiting businessmen some land I own down at Wherever, with a view to their possibly buying it; for which as I am sure you know, Chief Supervisor, no license is required.” “Oh. Ah. I see. Yes. Quite so. The Ordinance. The Statute. We are so very understaffed here at Government, Mr. Limekiller that sometimes oversights. Oh no, thank you, Mr. Limekiller!”

Two reasons for not waiting till meeting Bathsheba at the stroke of ten in order to eat. First. It was absolutely certain she would say, “I ate at my auntie.” Second. It was absolutely certain that Jack was hungry now. A paradox: that, whilst Bayfolk home-cooking is as good a style of home-cooking to be found anywhere and better than manywhere, Bayfolk home-cooking almost never reaches the cook- rooms of Bayfolk restaurants. Crab soup with crab spawn? Venison with crabboo-fruit? Turtle stew? Cowtail braised and made with broth? Coconut bread? Mango jelly? And more and more and — Yum Yum. But.

But, somehow, Limekiller did not know why, it was almost never that one found any such thing in any King Town restaurant, the home of the Fry Chicken, the Horn Somwich, and the Tin Soup. Why? Odd.

There was also, yes indeed, “Spanish” food, very little like Mexican food (equally very little like Spanish food sans quotes), but certainly a change from Tin Soup (it came in tins, is why), Horn Somwich, and Fry Chicken: but Spanish Town was perhaps just a bit further than he cared just now to walk; the Grand Shanghai was what destiny seemed to have in store for Limekiller tonight; and, as he entered its doors, he at once perceived what else destiny (karma, he felt now he had to call it) had in store for him tonight, viz. Mrs. and Dr. Duckerson: “Why, you jist sut right down and have your dunner wuth us, Mr. Limekuller,” said Mrs. Duckerson: she was short. But she was sturdy.

Down he sat.

“Doctor and me we saw the most puttiful case taday,” said she. “Man was I mean to tell you jist all cruppled up; soon’s he heard who Doctor was, well of course he wanned a git a nadjustmunt; but Doctor he hadda uxplain a him that he is not lie-sinced to practice down here; oh how he dud plead and carry on. Have the chucken chow mein, Muster Limekuller.”

Doctor Duckerson paused with a forkful of what was, presumably the chicken chow mein, although very often even The Third Eye could not disclose the mysteries of what one ate at the Grand Shanghai regardless of what one had ordered. “Subluxation of your third vertebrar,” said Doctor Duckerson. “I say that subluxations of your third vertebrar cause more of your so-called civilized ills and ailments than any single subluxation of any of your other vertebrar; now

“Eatcher dunner, Daddy,” said Mrs. Duckerson, who had perhaps heard more about your third vertebra and its subluxations back in Cowpat, Kansas, or Buffalo Bleep, B.C., than had been required by marriage ceremony.

Doctor’s question, slightly filtered through his forkful or Good Enough For Round Eyes, seemed to say something like Now what about our little trip Mr. Limeskinner; but he was for the moment over-ruled. “Lettum eat hus dunner, Daddy,” said Mrs. Duckerson.

One of the reasons why Limekiller had been avoiding close and frequent contact with Mrs. and Dr. Duckerson was the matter of what she (echoed through Doctor’s/Daddy’s shredded yard-fowl and whatever Mesoamerican substitutes for Chinese vegetables was most recently found most economical by the management of the Grand Shanghai) had been referring to on and off as “Our luttle trup” — the destination of our luttle trap was Limekiller’s little piece of land at Flower Bight. And he hadn’t been wanting to make it.

Not since he had made the close acquaintance of Bathsheba. Anyway.