Portman, when
you last dined at my house. You remember, don't you?"
Portman nodded. He did not remember--not the truffles. He recalled
some white port--but that was because he had bought the balance of
the lot himself.
"Where do they come from?" inquired Mason, the man from Chicago.
He wanted to know and wasn't afraid to ask.
"All through France. Mine are rooted near a little village in the
Province of Perigord."
"What roots'em?"
"Hogs--trained hogs. You are familiar, of course, with the way
they are secured?"
Mason--plain man as he was--wasn't familiar with anything remotely
connected with the coralling of truffles, and said so. Hodges
talked on, his eye resting first on one and then another of the
guests, his voice increasing in volume whenever a fresh listener
craned his neck, as if the information was directed to him alone--
a trick of Hodges' when he wanted an audience.
"And now a word of caution," he continued; "some thing that most
of you may not know--always root on a rainy day--sunshine spoils
their flavor--makes them tough and leathery.
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