The oysters were brought very soon, and when Johnny had eaten them and part of a roll, and when he had drunk two glasses of the Yquem, White said to him: "Tell me something about yourself. What have you been doing all these years?"
Johnny's face fell a little. "I've done pretty nearly everything," he answered, "from driving a Fifth Avenue stage to keeping books for a Third Avenue pawnbroker. I've been a waiter at a Coney Island chowder saloon. Two summers ago I waited on the man who has just taken our order—I waited on him more than once. I've dealt faro, too."
The waiter brought the soup and served them.
When he left them alone again, White asked: "Can't some of your old friends help you out of this—give you a start and set you up again?"
"It's no good trying," Johnny replied. "You can't pull me up now. It's too late. I guess it was too late from the start."
"Why don't you drop this place?" White queried, "and go out West, and—"
"What's the use of talking about that?" Johnny interrupted. "I can't live away from New York. If I got out of sight of that tower over there I'd die."
"You will die here soon enough at this rate," White answered.
"That's so, too," admitted Johnny; "but it can't be helped now." He was eating steadily, sturdily, but not ravenously.
After the waiter had served the fish, White asked again, "What can we do for you?"