The man strode off the doorstep on to the pavement. He gave his hat a further cock, still staring at Sard, almost with challenge, then he pulled a coloured handkerchief from a side pocket and blew his nose at Sard. As he drew the handkerchief something glimmered out with it and fell into the dust of the gutter. The man was plainly Sumecta, and the blowing of the nose was as the range-bull’s bellow at a rival. Sard tilted back his chair to watch him. Sumecta advanced to Sard, who waited for him, humming.
“You’re out here kind of late,” Sumecta said.
“Am I?”
Sumecta sharpened his tone. “Have you got a match?”
“Yes.” There was a pause: the two men watched each other. Presently Sumecta said: “Can I have the match? I’d like it.”
“Would you?”
“Yes.”
Sard went on with his humming but kept an eye lifting lest some other waif of the night should come. Sumecta took a half-step nearer.
“For two pins,” he said, “I’d bash your face in.”
Sard went on humming, but drew two pins from the lapel of his coat and offered them.