“No, Bob,—I never see a policeman here, except when a captain or an inspector comes in to eat,” the great restaurateur said nervously.
“Not like the old days downtown—with their raids—eh, Joe?”
“Nothing of that sort—ever!” And with a quick look around that showed he feared some one might have overheard these sentences and guessed what lay behind them, he said something about being needed on his ballroom floor and hurried away.
Clifford watched the famous restaurateur, again smiling grimly. If these people here—the respectable ones at least—knew the record of Joe Gordon (which again was not the name given him at birth), knew from what places and occupations he had made his way to his eminence of foremost host and impresario of prandial entertainment—what a panic there would be! (Or would there be a panic?) Life was certainly strange!—with its emergencies, its juxtapositions, its crossing of threads—strange at least to him who was always seeing behind the scenes. Yes, life was certainly strange!...
Clifford’s meditations were interrupted by a hearty, “Hello, Bob,” and by a large hand gripping one of his.
“Hello, Uncle George. I’d begun to think—”
“Hold on, son,” and Clifford’s host halted the talk by raising one hand like a traffic policeman and with the other reaching for the dinner card. While the long order was being dictated, Clifford gazed impatiently across at his companion, wondering what this appointment was about. His host was a large man who once might have been bulbous, but who now had deflated little balloons of skin hanging beneath eyes and chin and jaws. His few short gray hairs were divided into two precisely equal portions; his eyebrows were entirely gone, and of eyelashes he had almost none; his eyes were smallish, gray, cunning, genial. He made Clifford fancy, with those eyes of his so good-naturedly cynical, and with his large, outstanding ears, that here might be a satyr who had forsaken gay forests for city and had at length grown into grandfatherly days.
“Well, now, Uncle George—what’s all this about?” Clifford demanded when the order was in.
“Not so fast, son,—not so fast,” slowly remonstrated Uncle George, who, as far as Broadway’s knowledge went, was no one’s Uncle George, but who was known by no other name. “Let’s wait until we’ve packed away some of the freight that waiter’s going to bring us.” He blinked his lashless lids, and drawled on. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you—six months. I just wanted to give you the once over, and ask you how was trade.”
“Trade’s good—considering.”