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Bob Curtis: River Drifter

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by direst poverty.

Christine Curtis is one of those women who are taught
from childhood that a man is superior to a woman. She still
calls Bob "Mister Curtis," and she would die for him if he
said the word. Blindly faithful and devoted, she has followed
his(m) from shanty to shanty through the years, watching her
(margin: anti climactic) pitiful little collection of furniture mauled and ruined.

She was not meant for the river; for she loves beauty,
(margin: as do we all use her own words.)cleanliness, and honor. Her task in preserving either (any of these) in
the midst of stark ugliness has been difficult; but the
shacks in which she has lived bear the marks of her patient
toil. Flowers grow at each of them.

She never complains of poverty. Hunger and need have
become old stories for her. She did not complain the day
Bob's trotlines yielded a 46-pound yellow cat, a fish which
would have brought him $4.60 worth of food, but which was
traded for whiskey and a roaring drunk. That, also, is an
old story.

We were in the middle of the river, baiting a trotline
with red worms and minnows. It was barely daylight, and
a heavy fog lay over the glassy water. An occasional bass
rose to the surface, turning over with a splash and looking
for all the world like a bronze slab. Bob said, "Damn yore
skin; I'd like t' sink a tooth in yuh!"

I asked him then, "Bob, do you plan to stay on the river
this time?"

He pondered a moment, his eyes narrowed. "Damned ef I
know," he said at last. "Hit's about as good a place as
anywhar. I mought stay, an' then ag'in, ef thangs pick up

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