“You call it quiet till somebody hits you?”
“Vy should he hit me?” cried Freiburger indignantly.
“He shouldn't,” said Hennion.
“No! Veil, it vass not shtill, but quviet. Ach!” sadly, “ven a man iss drunk, vy don't he shleep?”
“He wants to stay awake and enjoy it.”
Freiburger shook his head slowly and felt of his nose, as if to be quite sure before taking the responsibility of repeating the statement.
“It vass Cahn. It vass not me.”
Wood sat silently, looking through the window to where the stereopticons flashed over the crowd's changing emotions, half listening to the conversation near him. Freiburger peered anxiously at him in the dusk. His mind was trembling with the thrill and tumult of the day, longing that Wood might say something, utter some sentence that it might cling to, clasp about with comprehension, and be safe from wandering, unguaranteed ideas. Hennion seemed interested in examining Freiburger's soul.
“Freiburger, you're as honest a man as I know.”
“Veil, yes, I'm honest. I don't know who you know.”