"What about the job, sir?" he broke out. "Can Jakey Harris apply for it?"
Mr. Wicker smiled, and it was strange, in that dim room inconsistently lit by the lights of passing cars, Mr. Wicker looked exactly like a venerable, wizened old man, when Chris knew perfectly well he was not.
It's peculiar, he thought, the tricks your eyes play on you. Guess I'm tired.
"Jakey Harris for the job?" Mr. Wicker remarked, "Why no—there is no job to fill. You filled it, Christopher!"
And all at once, without any good-bye, Chris found himself outside on the top step. The din of cars and honking horns rushed at him like a gape-mouthed monster; the drumming whine and roar from the freeway shook the ground, and up ahead the lights of the People's Drugstore looked garish but friendly. Across the way as he turned to go home, Chris glanced at the two tumbledown storehouses opposite, the winch and tackle broken, and panes of glass missing from the windows.
As he reached the corner of Wisconsin and M Street, Mike rushed breathlessly up.
"Hey! Here I am! Not much later than I said I'd be, either! What you got?" he asked, falling into step beside Chris and looking down at the bottle.
"Mr. Wicker gave it to me," Chris replied in a colorless voice.
"What for?"