He was seated at a table in a crowded café patronized chiefly by gamblers, when he was accosted by a friend whose dissipated face showed that he was of the same type as Fleming.
“Hello, old man,” said the former. “Drinking here all by your lonesome?”
“How are you, Bixby,” responded Fleming. “Sit down here and have something with me.”
His friend did so and Fleming motioned to the waiter and ordered a couple of drinks.
“Why, what’s the matter with your face, Fleming?” asked Bixby, as he looked at his friend curiously. “Been in a scrap?”
“Nothing like that,” lied Fleming in a surly tone. “Ran a car into a ditch and had an upset.”
“Doesn’t improve your beauty any,” laughed his friend lightly. “Still, you can’t kick if you’ve come out of a smash with nothing worse than that. What are you doing here in Boston, anyway? Come over to see the game?”
Fleming growled a moody assent.
“They say Matson is going to pitch to-morrow,” Bixby continued.