"You've been away for some time, haven't you?" Bob was asking.

Pope nodded. "I hate New York. I went as far away as I could get,
and--I managed to return just two jumps ahead of the sheriff. It
will take me six months to pay my debts. I'm a grand little
business man."

"What was it this time? Mining?"

"No. Poultry." Adoree pricked up her ears.

"You went West, eh?" pursued Bob.

"No. East--Long Island. Did you know there are parts of the Island
that are practically unexplored by civilized man? Well, there are.
They're as remote from the influence of New York as the heart of
New Guinea." Pope's thin lips parted in a smile. "The natives are
all foreigners, too. There are Portuguese pickle-pickers and
hairy-handed Hollanders who live with their heads lower than their
knees, and weed-pulling wops who skulk in patches of cauliflower
and lettuce, but as for American settlers--there ain't none."

Adoree complacently felt that she had the critic talking against
time, and the consciousness of her disturbing over him gratified
her intensely.

"Their language is a sort of Reverse English," Pope went on, "and
it's a hard country to explore because of the dialects. Some of
the people are flesh-eaters, but the price of poultry is so high