"No. I always was handy in camp. Then out here I had the luck to fall in
with an old fellow who was a wonderful cook. He lived with me for a while.
. . . Why, what difference would it have made--had Flo taught me?"
Carley felt the heat of blood in her face. "I don't know that it would have
made a difference. Only--I'm glad she didn't teach you. I'd rather no girl
could teach you what I couldn't."
"You think I'm a pretty good cook, then?" he asked.
"I've enjoyed this dinner more than any I've ever eaten."
"Thanks, Carley. That'll help a lot," he said, gayly, but his eyes shone
with earnest, glad light. "I hoped I'd surprise you. I've found out here
that I want to do things well. The West stirs something in a man. It must
be an unwritten law. You stand or fall by your own hands. Back East you
know meals are just occasions--to hurry through--to dress for--to meet
somebody--to eat because you have to eat. But out here they are different.
I don't know how. In the city, producers, merchants, waiters serve you for
money. The meal is a transaction. It has no significance. It is money that
keeps you from starvation. But in the West money doesn't mean much. You
must work to live.
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