The sign upon the cafe wall read, "Oysters, 50 cents." "How quaint," the Eastern sweetheart said, in some bewilderment. "I didn't know you served such fare, out here upon the plain." "Oh, yes," her cowboy date replied, "we're really quite urbane." "I should guess they're Chesapeake, or Blue Point, don't you think?" "No, ma'am, they're mostly Hereford cross, and usually they're pink. But I've been cold, so cold myself, what you say could be true, And if a man looked close enough, their points sure could be blue." "I like to gather them myself, out on the bay, alone. I pluck them from the murky depths, and smash them with a stone." The cowboy winced, imagining a calf with her beneath. "Well, me, I use a pocket knife, and yank 'em with my teeth." "Oh, my," she said, "you animal. How crude and unrefined. You're masculine assertiveness sends shivers down my spine. But I prefer a butcher knife, too dull to really cut; I wedge it in on either side, and crack it, like a nut. I pull them out; if they resist, sometimes I use the pliers Or even Grandpa's pruning shears, if that's what it requires." The hair stood on the cowboy's neck; his stomach gave a whirl. He'd never heard such grisly talk, especially from a girl. "I like mine fresh," the sweetheart said, and laid her menu down, Then ordered oysters for them both when the waiter came around. The cowboy smiled gamely, though her words stuck in his craw. But he finally fainted dead away when she said, "I'll have mine raw."