The gangster turned sharply, a frown replacing the
smile which had illuminated his attempts to overcome the boy's
recently developed aversion to drink. The waiter murmured in his
private ear.
Promptly P. Sybarite received a sharp look from eyes as black and hard
as shoe buttons; and with equanimity endured it--even went to the
length of a nod accompanied by his quaint, ingratiating smile. A
courtesy ignored completely: the dark eyes veered back to the waiter's
face and the white teeth flashed as he was curtly dismissed.
He shuffled back, scowling, reported sulkily: "Says yuh gotta wait";
and turned away in answer to a summons from another table.
Unruffled, P. Sybarite sipped his beer--sipped it sparingly and not
without misgivings, but sedulously to keep in character as a familiar
of the dive.
Presently there came yet another lull in the clatter of tongues; and
again the accents of the boy sounded distinctly from the gangster's
table:
"I won't--that's flat! I refuse positively--go up stairs--sleep it
off. I'm a' right--give you m' word--in the _head_. All my
trouble's--these mutinous dogs of legs. But I'll make 'em mind, yet.
Trust me--"
And again the babel blotted out his utterance.
But P. Sybarite had experienced a sudden rush of intelligence to the
head--was in the throes of that mental process which it is our habit
wittily to distinguish by the expressive term, "putting two and two
together.
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