“That seat’s engaged,” said the one called “Joe,” gruffly.
Harvey got up instantly. “Oh,” he said, in a hesitating manner. They went on with their conversation as if he were not there. After a moment he moved away, his ears burning, his 138 soul filled with mortification and shame. In a sort of daze he approached the cigar stand and asked for a box of cigarettes.
“What kind?” demanded the clerk, laying down his newspaper.
Harvey smiled engagingly. “Oh, the kind I usually get!” he said, feeling sure that the fellow remembered him and the quality he smoked.
“What’s that?” snapped the clerk, scowling.
The purchaser hastily mentioned a certain kind of cigarette, paid for it after the box had been tossed at him, and walked away. Fixed in his determination to stay in the place until he was well thawed out, he took a seat at a little table near the stairway and ordered a hot lemonade.
He was conscious of a certain amount of attention from the tables adjacent to the trio he had accosted. Several loud guffaws came to his ears as he sipped the boiling drink. Taking an unusually copious swallow, he coughed and spluttered as the liquid scalded his tongue and palate. The tears rushed to his eyes. From past experience he knew that his tongue would 139 be sore for at least a week. He had such a tender tongue, Nellie said.
For half an hour he sat there dreaming and brooding. It was much better than tramping the streets. A clock on the opposite wall pointed to four o’clock. The matinée would be over at a quarter to five. Presently he looked again. It was five minutes past four. Really it wasn’t so bad waiting after all; not half so bad as he had thought it would be.
Some one tapped him on the shoulder. He looked up with a start. The manager of the place stood at his elbow.
“This isn’t a railway station, young feller,” he said, harshly. “You’ll have to move on. These tables are for customers.”