They got up and put on their coats. With surprise, they noticed that the shutters of the lounge were drawn and that the bar was untended. Alone in a corner, the white-haired waiter sat dozing. Drew pressed a bill into the hand of the sleepy attendant and opened the door himself. Out in the street the wind was blowing harder than ever and a pale green light clung like a heavy paste to the eastern horizon.
CHAPTER VIII
Martin left the typographical plant. He thought he was a funny one. Being fired made him feel a little childish. It might be hurt or anger, or it might be something more esoteric. He didn’t know. But his face was colorless and his eyes gleamed unnaturally.
“I guess it isn’t anything to sigh and fret about, ‘dear boy,’” he said. “It was Roberts, of course; and I can’t buck him. This city’s even more of a machine than I had thought.” He walked until he was thirsty, went into a restaurant and had two cups of coffee. Then he walked some more. He stopped in at another restaurant and tried to eat. He couldn’t. So he had a third cup of coffee and decided to call up Roberts. The conversation was pertinent.
“It’s Martin Devaud. Is Mr. Roberts there?”
“Hello, Martin. It’s myself.”
“I’m fired. May I see you this evening?”
“Come at six.”