Then the new alto came to the choir, and
Pinton--at being springtide, when the blood is in the joyful
mood--thought that he was in love. He was really athirst.
This Friday evening he was genuinely disappointed and thirsty. He turned
with a sinking heart and parched throat into Pop Pusch's dearly beloved
resort. Earlier in his life he had often solaced himself with the free
lunch that John, the melancholy waiter, had dispensed. Pinton's mind was
a prey to many emotions as he entered the famous old place. He sat down
before a brown table and clamoured for amber beer.
He was not alone at the table. As Pinton put the glass of Pilsner to his
lips he met the gaze of two sardonic eyes. He could not finish his
glass. He returned the look of the other man and then arose, with a
nervous jerk that almost upset the table.
"Sit down, old pal; don't be crazy. I'll never say a word. Sit down, you
fool; don't you see people are looking at you?"
The voice was low, kindly in intonation, but it went through Pinton like
a saw biting its way into wood.
Pages:
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330