the motorcar sped bumpily across the deserted plain.
oscar “ozzie” kenilworth, a young anglo-saxon male of impeccable lineage, turned to his companion, a swarthy, slightly older fellow of less peccable ancestry and drawled -
you know, old bean, i am starting to get a wee bit tired of your company.
baron foster childe, the heir to a fabulous fortune amassed over the centuries in the counting houses of central europe, suavely retorted -
you do not say so. what other company did you expect, out here in this vast expanse of nothing?
i thought we might encounter a wandering prophet or two, or at least a wandering minstrel.
we still might. we have a few hundred miles to go before out next fuel stop.
i fear if we find no one between here and denver, we will never find one between denver and tombstone.
since you mention it, how do you think the fuel is holding up? do you trust that fuel gauge? can you read it? i know i can’t.
i trust it. would you like me to stop and actually look in the fuel tank?
oh no, that sounds like a great bore. but to return to your prophet and minstrel, do you have a preference between them?
which would you prefer?
for my part, i would prefer a damsel in distress. she need not even be particularly comely.
of course. you swarthy meditteranean types are all alike.
the baron laughed. no need to get personal, old chap.
suddenly an enormous dark cloud appeared in the horizon.
that settles it, ozzie announced.
oh? settles what, exactly? that it will rain?
no, that we will encounter a prophet before a minstrel.
i think i might have preferred the minstrel. by the way, would the minstrel be expected to sing for his supper?
his supper? are we running a restaurant?
it was just a manner of speaking. will our prospective singer need to entertain us with his repertoire in exchange for our giving him a lift?
a lift? i thought we might simply stop and unpack aunt claudine’s picnic basket and listen to the minstrel while we savored its bounty.
i see. and might the minstrel be granted a slice or two from our luxurious meal?
oh, i suppose so, if the food is not too rich for him, and if he happens to be hungry.
if he is wandering out here in the wilderness, he will be hungry. and not too finicky to pass up pheasant.
if you say so, based on your apparent experience in these matters.
and you keep referring to the singer as “he”. i continue to hold out hope for a she.
the cloud on the horizon expanded and came closer, and the chattering chums for the first time saw flashes of lightning.
the baron sighed. i do hope it is not a tornado.
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