"T'anks"—with a look of surprise. Then familiarly knuckling the top of the table, the waiter stroked a rusty chin and surveyed the room. "There's Red, now," he observed.
"Where?"
"Over there with the skirt and the kid souse. Yuh kin see for yourself he's busy. D' yuh want I sh'u'd stir him up now?"
"Oh, yes," said P. Sybarite, in the tone of one recognising an oversight. "What's doing over there—anything?" he proceeded casually.
The waiter favoured him with a hard stare. "Red November's business ain't none'r mine," he growled; "an' less you know him a heluva sight better'n I do, you'd better take a straight tip from me and—leave—it—lay!"
"Oh!" said the little man hastily—"I was only wondering.... But I wish you would slip Red the high sign: all I want is one word with him."
"All right, bo'—you're on."
Slouching off, obviously reluctant to interrupt the diversions of Mr. November, the man at length mustered up courage to touch that gentleman's elbow. The gangster turned sharply, a frown replacing the smile which had illuminated his attempts to overcome the boy's recently developed aversion to drink. The waiter murmured in his private ear.
Promptly P. Sybarite received a sharp look from eyes as black and hard as shoe buttons; and with equanimity endured it—even went to the length of a nod accompanied by his quaint, ingratiating smile. A courtesy ignored completely: the dark eyes veered back to the waiter's face and the white teeth flashed as he was curtly dismissed.
He shuffled back, scowling, reported sulkily: "Says yuh gotta wait"; and turned away in answer to a summons from another table.