“WE’LL steal the whole day, and go hunting. I want you to see the country round here,” Kennicott announced at breakfast. “I’d take the car — want you to see how swell¹ she runs since I put in a new piston². But we’ll take a team, so we can get right out into the fields. Not many prairie chickens left now, but we might just happen to run onto a small covey.”
He fussed over his hunting-kit³. He pulled his hip⁴ boots out to full length and examined them for holes. He feverishly⁵ counted his shotgun shells, lecturing her on the qualities of smokeless powder. He drew the new hammerless shotgun out of its heavy tan leather case and made her peep through the barrels to see how dazzlingly free they were from rust⁶.
The world of hunting and camping-outfits and fishing-tackle was unfamiliar⁷ to her, and in Kennicott’s interest she found something creative and joyous⁸. She examined the smooth stock, the carved hard rubber butt⁹ of the gun. The shells, with their brass¹⁰ caps and sleek¹¹ green bodies and hieroglyphics¹² on the wads, were cool and comfortably heavy in her hands.
Kennicott wore a brown canvas hunting-coat with vast pockets lining

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