“I couldn’t say — I believe, though — yes, in that little chair with his game leg pushed under — I’m pretty sure I have.”
“Any of your other friends, this bunch?”
“I really couldn’t say.”
“Do many of them belong to the club?”
“Oh, yes, nearly all. Mike Ayers doesn’t, and I believe Leo Elkus resigned a few years ago...”
“I see. Are there any other typewriters in the alcove?”
“There’s one more, but it belongs to a public stenographer. I understand this one was donated by some club member. They used to keep it in the library, but some of the one-finger experts made too much noise with it.”
“All right.” I got up. “You can imagine how I feel, coming all the way to Philadelphia to get a kick in the pants. Can I tell Wolfe when you’re coming back, in case he wants you?”
He said probably tomorrow, he had to prepare drawings to submit to Mr. Allenby, and I thanked him for nothing and went out to seek the air and a streetcar to North Philadelphia.
The train ride back to New York, in a smoker filled with the discard from a hundred pairs of assorted lungs, was not what I needed to cheer me up. I couldn’t think up anything to keep me awake, and I couldn’t go to sleep. We pulled in at the Pennsylvania Station at midnight, and I walked home.