You either get a big kick out of tossing your weight around like that, or else you feel all hands and feet. Duffy felt all hands and feet.
The chef and Morgan got into a huddle with the bill of fare. He didn’t ask Duffy what he wanted and Duffy was glad of that. He just kept talking in his deep harsh voice and the chef squeaked back at him in broken English until they had put a meal together that seemed to satisfy him. After they had done that, they got some elbow-room. Then Morgan remembered that Duffy was sitting opposite him.
“You’ll excuse me for not asking you what you would like, but on these occasions I feel the choice of a good meal lies in the hands of the chef rather than in the hands of the diner. Consult the chef and you put him on his mettle. I think you will be satisfied.”
Duffy shrugged. He began to want another drink.
“I should like to confirm a few details,” Morgan went on; “forgive me if I seem inquisitive, but my questions will eventually be to your advantage, so I must ask for your patience.”
This long-winded stuff gave Duffy a pain, but he hadn’t had oysters for a couple of years, so he let himself go with them.
Morgan didn’t seem to expect an answer, but went straight on. “I believe you resigned from the Tribune this afternoon?” he said casually.
Duffy grinned. “You’re partly right there,” he said. “I didn’t resign, I was tossed out.”
“Arkwright is a difficult man.”
This bird seemed to know all the answers. Duffy laid his oyster-fork on the plate and looked regretfully at the glistening shells. “So what?” he said.