"Cement Mixer Zinsky," Joy murmured. "Another of those odd names."
"It's on account of he invented something. Zinsky was the first gee to think up a very novel way of getting rid of people that crowd you. He got the idea to mix up a tub of cement—place the unwanted character's feet in same and then throw the whole thing into the lake. Result—no more crowding by that guy."
"He was the first one who thought of it? A sort of trail blazer."
"Of course Cement Mixer is a big shot now and his boys take care of things like that. But sometimes he goes along to mix the cement—just to keep his hand in you might say."
"A sentimentalist no doubt."
"No doubt," Bag Ears agreed.
I patted Joy's hand and said, "Don't be alarmed, darling. I will take care of everything."
The situation was definitely obnoxious to me. Tolerance of one's fellow men is one thing, but this was something entirely different. These people had come uninvited to our festive board and were of the criminal element, pure and unadulterated by any instincts of honesty or decency. And it made me angry to see them wading into Aunt Gretchen's liquor supply as though the stuff came out of a pump.
They were easy to count, these hoodlums, segregated as they were. The more respectable of the guests who had not already left, were clustered together in one corner of the living room, possibly as a gesture toward self-protection. None of these elite were making any effort to approach the buffet or the portable bar at the other side of the room. And in thus refraining, they showed a superior brand of intelligence. Under present circumstances any attempt to reach the refreshments would have been as dangerous as crossing the Hialeah race track on crutches.
In fact, as I surveyed the scene, one brave lady made a half-hearted attempt to cross over and spear a sandwich off the corner of the buffet. She was promptly shoved out of range by a lean, hungry-looking customer in a pink shirt, who snarled, "Scram, Three Chins! You're overfed now."