“Thanks,” said Martin. “I’ll have a Bass Ale.”
“To my little lady I left in the west!” said the florid man, a few tears trickling down the side of his pudgy nose. “Ain’t that right, Allie?” he continued, turning to a slab-headed man next to him.
“Yeah,” replied Allie, looking Martin over.
The three men lifted their glasses. Allie belched and took a package of baking soda from his pocket. He dumped a teaspoonful into the remainder of his beer and stirred it. Swallowing this concoction with some effort, he turned to Martin.
“It takes a goddam acid out,” he said earnestly. “It don’t give a gas like a plain goddam beer—” he stopped to belch again.
Martin nodded in agreement.
“I must be going now,” he said, “but before I do, kindly have a drink on me.”
Allie insisted on a third which Martin thanked him for, but put down untouched after seeing the fellow cleverly add an astonishing portion of “mickey” to it.
The men were sullen as he said goodnight, and a little way down the street Martin knew he was being followed by them. He ducked around a corner and into a doorway for a moment, but they were even closer behind him as he started on. Ahead of him four men were huddled on a stoop out of the rain, the light from a yellow lamp streaking their greasy features. Martin thought momentarily of Deane’s weird description, then looking back and seeing Allie and his friend closing in upon him, he went directly to the little group on the doorstep and addressed them earnestly.