“I was admiring your appetite,” Pete said quietly. “You’ve eaten twelve eggs and two pounds of ham since nine o’clock last night.”
“So wad? I gotta do somethin’ while we wait, ain’t I? Why the hell don’t yuh eat?”
Pete shrugged.
“I guess I’m not hungry. How much longer do you think we’ve got to wait like this?”
Moe eyed him; a sudden shrewd expression crossed his face.
This guy was queer, he was thinking. Not that he could blame him. If he had that port wine stain spread over his puss like Pete had, he’d be queer himself.
“Until that bum Louis sez we can go.” He shovelled ham into his mouth, chewed for a moment, reached for his coffee and took a long drink. “Wad gets up my bugle is why the hell yuh should be the guy to hit the frill. Why pick on yuh? Wad’s the matter wid me? I’ve hit scores of guys. Yuh ain’t hit any yet, have yuh?”
Pete shook his head.
“I’ve got to start some time.” He leaned forward and picked up Frances Coleman’s photograph and stared at it. “I wish it hadn’t to be her.”
“Jay-sus!” Moe said, grinning. “That’s right. I could do plenty to her without hittin’ her. Plenty!”