As I had judged to be the case, he was slightly bemused, but by no means drunk, and although his question was abrupt it was spoken civilly enough.
“Journalism is one of the several occupations in which I have failed,” I replied, lightly.
“You are not a fiction writer?”
“I lack the imagination necessary for that craft, sir.”
The other wagged his head slowly and took a drink of whisky. “Nevertheless,” he said, and raised his finger solemnly, “you were thinking that I resembled Edgar Allan Poe!”
“Good heavens!” I exclaimed, for the man had really amazed me. “You clearly resemble him in more ways than one. I must really ask you to inform me how you deduced such a fact from a mere glance of mine.”
“I will tell you, sir,” he replied. “But, first, I must replenish my glass, and I should be honoured if you would permit me to replenish yours.”
“Thanks very much,” I said, “but I would rather you excused me.”
“As you wish, sir,” replied the American with grave courtesy, “as you wish.”
He stepped up to the counter and rapped upon it with half a crown, until the landlady appeared. She treated me to a pathetic glance, but refilled the empty glass.