I began to say, "Everybody calls me Nap," but then I didn't. There was
something about this guy that didn't click with me. Say what you will
against snap judgments, I still take my love at first sight and enmity
often the same way.
For one thing, he gave me the impression of _looking_ for trouble;
he was about six foot two and he had what he obviously thought was
an aristocratic face. His nose was the type that used to be called
Roman--and looked like it'd be a honey to punch. He was dressed like a
million, which didn't particularly impress me either. I'm on the rugged
side myself, red headed and homely to boot.
He took in the rifle I was cleaning, and his eyebrows went up
questioningly. "Collector?" he asked. Somehow or other he managed to
put over the impression that he thought I didn't have the intellect to
have a hobby.
"Not exactly," I told him. "This is a tool, not a collector's item."
There was almost a laugh in his voice now. "You mean you use that relic
in your work?"
I put the gun down, told myself to take it easy, then said, "They've
made a lot of developments in weapons since this rifle was popular, but
it still has advantages on certain types of jobs. For instance, if I
was after a Kodiac bear, up in the Alaska National Park--"