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." "Kind of hog got anything to do with the taste ?" asked Mason in all sincerity.