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Somehow the episode of the afternoon had left so vivid an impression on Birt's mind that hours afterward he seemed to see the dull, clouded sky, the sombre, encircling woods, the brown stretch of spent tan, the little gray shed, and within it, hanging upon a peg, the butternut jeans coat, a stiff white paper protruding from its pocket. That grant, he thought, had taken from him his rights.
Through the stir of her emotions a feeling of sudden, firm resolve came over her. She stood up, reached down to her waist, and took off her blouse. She unfastened, and slipped out of her faded jeans. She removed her underclothes more slowly, her own heart beating heavily, and lay down beside him. And shyly, and affectionately, and longingly drew him close.
Orson was a pain in the ass, but he had a point sometimes you have to make a move. Two men wearing similar clothes pressed jeans, T-shirts, white running shoes, and sunglasses walked up and took benches closer to the water. One was older, softer, beginning to put on weight. He sat with his elbows on his knees, looking across the harbor.
Reservoir was a poor town, anyway. And Life was a poor thing, too. He'd tried for hours and hours to think of one fair promise which it still held for him just one! tried hard! And couldn't! Blue Jeans was twenty-two. And Luck had trifled with him over-long. One brief month earlier he had been a man of ambition, a man of promise. He'd even found his Dream.
"There's one comfort: it isn't a matter of money. If it were, where would the Congdons be?" "No, it isn't really a matter of money, and in a certain sense it isn't a matter of brains. It's a question of " "Savoir faire." "Precisely. You haven't a cent, so you say frequently " Congdon stopped him, gravely. "I owe you fifty I was just going down into my jeans to pay it, when I suddenly recalled "
"But see 'ere. Cap'en he tells me I must shave me face and be a 'oss soldier. I never shaved me face in me life, and I dunno 'ow to do it, just as I dunno 'ow to ride a 'oss. I'm a sailorman, I am, and sailormen don't shave their faces and ride 'osses. That's why I arsked yer what yer thought of this 'ere war." The chauffeur struggled into his jeans and adjusted them before replying.
Clad in rough coats of sombre hue, jeans, blanket, and buckskin, not a few of them ragged, with hats of all shapes and styles; carrying rifles in their hands, with revolving pistols and bowie-knives in their belts, there could be no mistaking them for the gaudily-bedizened troop whose horses at sunrise of that same day trampled over the same turf.
It was a painful suggestion of collapsed energies, despite its picturesque drapery of vines. No human being could live there, but in the doorway abruptly appeared a boy of seventeen, dressed, like Jack, in an old brown jeans suit and a shapeless white hat. Jack paused at a little distance up on the hill, and parleyed in a stentorian voice with the boy in the mill.
Dey had ole brown jeans coat an' britches. Dey look like de "Sesh" what I seed when dey lef Col. Tom at my cabin. "'Well, said Peter, 'they were escaped prisoners, I have no doubt, from some place, and are hunting their way South. "'Yes, sah, said Ham; 'dat's it; dey 'scape and is gwine back to de reb's army, sho': dat's who dey is. I know'd dey was "Sesh."
The crude light from the long windows was full upon his tall slim figure; his yellow hair curled down upon the collar of his blue jeans coat; his great miry boots were drawn high over the trousers to the knee; his pensive deer-like eyes brightened with a touch of arrogance and enmity as, turning slowly to see who was present, his glance encountered his father-in-law's fiery gaze. "Mr. Cheerman!
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