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Page 57
"MacManus--?" asked the waiter, beginning to believe that this strange
little creature must in fact be a "regular" of the "bunch"--one whose
name and face had somehow, unaccountably, slipped from his memory.
"November," P. Sybarite corrected.
"Oh, he's stickin' round--pretty busy to-night. Wouldn't fuss him, 'f
I was yuh, 'less it's somethin' extra."
"I make you," said the little man. "But this is his business. Tell him
I have a message for him, will you?"
"Just as yuh say, bo'," returned the other cautiously. "What's it
goin' to be? Bucket of grape or a tub of suds?"
"Do I look like the foolish waters?" enquired P. Sybarite with mild
resentment. "Back me up a shell of lather."
Grinning amiably at this happy metaphorical description of the glass
of lager regularly served at Dutch House, the waiter shouldered
through the swinging doors to the bar....
Then fell a brief lull in the m�lange of music and tongues, during
which a boyish voice lifted up in clear remonstrance at a table some
three removed from that at which P. Sybarite sat:
"But I don't _want_ anything more to drink!"
P. Sybarite looked that way. The owner of the voice (now again
drowned) was apparently a youngster of twenty years--not more--clean
of limb and feature, with a hot flush discolouring his good-looking
face, a hectic glitter in his eyes, and a stubborn smile on his lips.
Lounging low in a straight-backed chair, with his hands in his pockets
and his head wagging obstinately, he was plainly intoxicated, but as
yet at a stage sufficiently mild to admit of his recognising the
self-evident truth that he needed not another drop.
Yet his companions would have him drink more deeply.
Of these, one was a woman of no uncertain caste, a woman handsome in a
daring and costly gown, and as yet not old, but in whose eyes
flickered a curious febrile glare ("as though," commented P. Sybarite,
moralist, "reflected back from the mouth of Hell").
The other was a man singularly handsome in a foreign way--Italian, at
an indifferent guess--slight and graceful of person in well-tailored
if somewhat flashy clothing; boasting too much jewellery; his teeth
gleaming a vivid white against his dark colouring as he smiled
good-humouredly in his attempts to press more drink upon the other.
The music stopped altogether for a time, and again the boy's voice
rang out clearly:
"Tell you--'ve had enough."
The Italian said something urgent, in an undertone. The woman added
inaudible persuasion to his argument. The boy looked from one to
another with a semi-stupid smile; but wagged an obdurate head.
"I will _not_. No--and I don't want--lie down jus' for few minutes.
I'm goin' sit here till these--ah--foolish legs 'mine straighten
'emselves out--then 'm going home." ...
"Here's your beer, bo'," P. Sybarite's waiter announced.
"Keep the change," said the guest, tendering a quarter.
"T'anks"--with a look of surprise. Then familiarly knuckling the top
of the table, the waiter stroked a rusty chin and surveyed the room.
"There's Red, now," he observed.
"Where?"
"Over there with the skirt and the kid souse. Yuh kin see for yourself
he's busy. D' yuh want I sh'u'd stir him up now?"
"Oh, yes," said P. Sybarite, in the tone of one recognising an
oversight. "What's doing over there--anything?" he proceeded casually.
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