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Show Jeffries, Section 3, Page 13 The next morning there he'd be in the yard, on the walk, crow's eye on a nickel. There'd be the stars and bars proud from the Texas cabin of a thirty-footer; that would be the Commodore tying up his Dixiecrat. Then you might be in for the life story of John Birch. "Who is really risking nuclear war?" he would demand from whichever party he could buttonhole in the gardens. "Here," the yachtsman would say, reaching into the exfoliation of white duck and shirtdrawers, "take this, The Gravediggers, by Phyllis Schlafly, Rear Admiral Chester Ward, here I want you to read this and pass it to two friends. . ." "I have a legitimate son," the Commodore would begin, and a shadow of something kin to sadness would flicker across the faces of two or three of the women, "--in one of the good Yankee colleges, and they tease him." Which seemed reasonable insofar as he'd named the boy States' Rights. From his little bayous, or from the backcountry, where he'd be out after the night-feeding, large pink shrimp, would come Oysterman. |
