To his brother waiters Wynne was ever remote and a shade cynical. He laughed at, but never with them, and affected a tolerant attitude which they found far from endearing. Occasionally one of the sturdier would attempt to bully him, but in this would seldom prosper. A Frenchman, as a rule, bullies with his tongue rather than his hands, and Wynne’s tongue was ever ready with a lightning counterstroke. These passages were in some respects a repetition of the old schoolday affairs, and since he never forgot a lesson he was well armed to defend himself.
And so the weeks dragged into months and the debt gradually diminished.
X
One bright spring morning, some two years after his arrival in Paris, Wynne received a surprise. A broad-shouldered figure came under the shadow of the awning and seated himself at one of the small round tables.
“It’s Uncle Clem!” gasped Wynne to himself. He straightened his waistcoat and went outside.
“M’sieur!” he said.
“Un bock,” came the reply.
Unrecognized, Wynne retired and returned a moment later with a glass tankard which he set upon the table.
“Beau temps, m’sieur!”
“Ah, oui!”