"Well, it promises fair enough," returned Carraway pleasantly.
"They tell me, by the way, that the yellow, sun-cured leaf is
coming into favour in the market. You don't try that, eh?"

Christopher shook his head, and, kneeling on the ground,
carelessly sorted his pile of plants. "I learned to cure it
indoors," he answered, and I reckon I'll keep to the old way. The
dark leaf is what the people about here like--it makes the
sweeter chew, they think. As for me, I hate the very smell of
it." "That's odd, and I'll wager you're the only man in the
county who neither smokes nor chews." "Oh, I handle it, you see.
The smell and the stain of it are well soaked in. I sometimes
wonder if all the water in the river of Jordan could wash away
the blood of the tobacco worm." With a laugh in which there was
more bitterness than mirth, he stretched out his big bronzed
hands, and Carraway saw that the nails and finger-tips were dyed
bright green. "It does leave its mark," observed the lawyer, and
felt instantly that the speech was inane. Christopher went on
quietly with his work, gathering up the plants and hanging the
slit stalks over the long poles, while the peculiar heavy odour
of the freshly cut crop floated unpleasantly about them. For a
time Carraway watched him in silence, his eyes dwelling soberly
upon the stalwart figure. In spite of himself, the mere beauty of
outline touched him with a feeling of sadness, and when he spoke
at last it was in a lowered tone. "You have, perhaps, surmised
that my call is not entirely one of pleasure," he began
awkwardly; "that I am, above all, the bearer of a message from
Mr. Fletcher." "From Fletcher?" repeated Christopher coolly.
"Well, I never heard a message of his yet that wasn't better left
undelivered." "I am sure I am correct in saying," Carraway went