"Yes—come along," urged the dark young man.
"Not yet. Gotta buy thish boy a lil' drink. What you having, Quincy, o' man?"
"Not a thing," smiled John Quincy. "You warned me against these Island drinks yourself."
"Who—me?" Bowker was hurt. "You're wrong that time, o' man. Don' like to conter—conterdict, but it mush have been somebody else. Not me. Never said a word—"
The young man took his arm. "Come on—you're due on the ship—"
Bowker wrenched away. "Don' paw me," he cried. "Keep your hands off. I'm my own mashter, ain't I? I can speak to an o' friend, can't I? Now, Quincy, o' man—what's yours?"
"I'm sorry," said John Quincy. "Some other time."
Bowker's companion took his arm in a firmer grasp. "You can't buy anything here," he said. "This is a restaurant. You come with me—I know a place—"
"Awright," agreed Bowker. "Now you're talking. Quincy, o' man, you come along—"
"Some other time," John Quincy repeated.