B M Bower

The Uphill Climb B M Bower

Ford lifted his arms above his head to yawn as does a man who has slept too heavily, found his biceps stiffened and sore, and massaged them gingerly with his finger-tips. His eyes took on the vacancy of memory straining at the leash of forgetfulness. He sighed largely, swung his head slowly from left to right in mute admission of failure to grasp what lay just behind his slumber, and thereby discovered other muscles that protested against sudden movement. He felt his neck with a careful, rubbing gesture. One hand strayed to his left cheekbone, hovered there tentatively, wandered to the bridge of his nose, and from there dropped inertly to the bed."Lordy me! I must have been drunk last night," he said aloud, mechanically taking the straight line of logic from effect to cause, as much experience had taught him to do."You was-and then some," replied an unemotional voice from somewhere behind him."Oh! That you, Sandy?" Ford lay quiet, trying to remember. His finger-tips explored the right side of his face; now and then he winced under their touch, light as it was."I must have carried an awful load," he decided, again unerringly taking the backward trail from effect to cause. Later, logic carried him farther. "Who'd I lick, Sandy?""Several." The unseen Sandy gave one the impression of a man smoking and speaking between puffs. "Can't say just who-you did start in on. You wound up on-the preacher.""Preacher?" Ford's tone matched the flicker of interest in his eyes."Uhn-hunh."Ford meditated a moment. "I don't recollect ever licking a preacher before," he observed curiously.