“Would it be worth a drink t’see the Marvel of the Age, stranger?”
An anticipatory hush seemed to settle gradually on the small dark room. Simon could see in the mirror that each of the characters who decorated the perimeter of the horseshoe stiffened a little as the reedy voice broke the quiet. Brown hands tensed a little around their glasses, and a covert wink was exchanged between the unmistakable cognoscenti.
The Saint turned to look down into a saddle-tanned seamed face studded with mild blue eyes and topped by this gray hair. The blue jeans were faded, so was the khaki shirt, and the red necktie ran through a carven bone clasp. The look in the blue eyes said that their owner expected an order to get the hell from underfoot — or at best the polite brush-off which was already on Simon Templar’s lips.
And then, almost as the words were forming, the mind’s eye of the Saint visualized a long succession of such brush-offs and he reflected on how small a price was the cost of a drink in return for gratitude in the mild eyes of a lonely old character.
“I don’t know the going rate on marvels in these degenerate times,” said the Saint gently, “but one drink sounds fair enough.”
“Double?” spoke the old-timer hopefully.
The bartender halted the bottle in mid-flight and again the Saint felt a tensing among the habitués along the brass rail.
“Double,” Simon agreed, and the bartender relaxed as if a great decision had been reached, and finished pouring the drink.
The little man lifted a battered canvas grip and placed it tenderly on the bar. He reached for the drink and lifted it toward his lips. Then he set the drink back on the bar and drew himself up to a dignified five feet five.
“Beggin’ your parding, mister — James Aloysius McDill, an’ your servant.”