He did not, however, waste a great deal of time in speculation on this matter, for, stirred by the actual presence of food, he had begun now to realise that Molly had been right, as women always are, and that, while his whole higher self cried out for the moon, his lower self was almost equally as insistent on taking in supplies. And at this particular restaurant it was happily possible to satisfy both selves simultaneously: for there, as he stepped into what the management called the garden—a flagged backyard dotted with tables—was the moon, all present and correct, and there, also, were waiters waiting to supply the prix fixe table-d’hôte at one-dollar-fifty.
It seemed to George the neatest possible combination: and his only anxiety now was with regard to the securing of a seat. At first glance it appeared that every table was occupied.
This conjecture was confirmed by a second glance. But, though all the other tables had their full quota, there was one, standing beside the Sheridan’s back wall and within a few feet of its fire-escape, that was in the possession of a single diner. This diner George approached, making his expression as winning as possible. He did not, as a rule, enjoy sharing a table with a stranger, but as an alternative to going away and trudging round in search of another restaurant it seemed a good plan now.
“Excuse me, sir,” said George, “would you mind if I came to this table?”
The other looked up from the poulet rôti aux pommes de terre and salade Bruxelloise which had been engaging his attention. He was plainly one of the convention from the outlying State, if physique could be taken as a guide. He spread upwards from the table like a circus giant and the hands which gripped the knife and fork had that same spaciousness which George had noted in the diners in the other room. Only as to the eyes did this man differ from his fellows. They had had eyes of a peculiarly steely and unfriendly type, the sort of eyes which a motorist instinctively associates with traffic-policemen and a professional thief with professional detectives. This man’s gaze was mild and friendly, and his eyes would have been attractive but for the redness of their rims and the generally inflamed look which they had.
“By no means, sir,” he replied to George’s polite query.
“Place very crowded tonight.”
“Extremely.”
“Then, if you won’t mind, I’ll sit here.”
“Delighted,” said the other.
George looked round for a waiter and found one at his elbow. However crowded the Purple Chicken might be, its staff never neglected the old habitué: and it had had the benefit of George’s regular custom for many months.
“Good evening, sare,” said the waiter, smiling the smile which had once broken hearts in Assisi.
“Good evening, Guiseppe,” said George. “I’ll take the dinner.”
“Yes, sare. Sick or glear zoop?”
“Sick. Crowded tonight, Guiseppe.”
“Yes, sare. Lots of guys here tonight. Big business.”
“The waiter appears to know you,” said George’s companion.
“Oh, yes,” said George, “I’m in here all the time.”
“Ah,” said the other, thoughtfully.
The soup arrived, and George set about it with a willing spoon. His companion became hideously involved with spaghetti.
“This your first visit to New York?” asked George, after an interval.
“No, indeed, sir. I live in New York.”
“Oh, I thought you were up from the country.”
“No, sir. I live right here in New York.”
A curious idea that he had seen this fellow before somewhere came over George. Yes, at some time and in some place he could have sworn that he had gazed upon that long body, that prominent Adam’s apple, and that gentle expanse of face. He searched his memory. Nothing stirred.
“I have an odd feeling that we have met before,” he said.
“I was thinking just the same myself,” replied the other.
“My name is Finch.”
“Mine is Cabot. Delancy Cabot.”
George shook his head.
“I don’t remember the name.”
“Yours is curiously familiar. I have heard it before, but cannot think when.”
“Do you live in Greenwich Village?”
“Somewhat further uptown. And you?”
“I live in the apartment on top of this building here at the back of us.”
A sudden light that seemed that of recognition came into the other’s face. George observed it.
“Have you remembered where we met?”
“No, sir. No, indeed,” said the other hastily. “It has entirely escaped me.” He took a sip of ice water. “I recall, however, that you are an artist.”
“That’s right. You are not one, by any chance?”
“I am a poet.”
“A poet?” George tried to conceal his somewhat natural surprise. “Where does your stuff appear mostly?”
“I have published nothing as yet, Mr. Finch,” replied the other sadly.
“Tough luck. I have never sold a picture.”
“Too bad.”
They gazed at one another with kindly eyes, two fellow-sufferers from the public’s lack of taste. Guiseppe appeared, bearing deep-dish apple-pie in one hand, poulet rôti in the other.
“Guiseppe,” said George.
“Sare?”
George bent his lips towards the waiter’s attentive ear.
“Bzz … Bzz … Bzz …” said George.
“Yes, sare. Very good, sare. In one moment, sare.”
George leaned back contentedly. Then it occurred to him that he had been a little remiss. He was not actually this red-eyed man’s host, but they had fraternised and they both knew what it was to toil at their respective arts without encouragement or appreciation.
“Perhaps you will join me?” he said.
“Join you, sir?”
“In a highball. Guiseppe has gone to get me one.”
“Indeed? Is it possible to obtain alcoholic refreshment in this restaurant?”
“You can always get it if they know you.”
“But surely it is against the law?”
“Ha, ha!” laughed George. He liked this pleasant, whimsical fellow. “Ha, ha! Deuced good!”
He looked at him with that genial bonhomie with which one looks at a stranger in whom one has discovered a sly sense of humour. And, looking, he suddenly congealed.
Stranger?
“Great Scott!” ejaculated George.
“Sir?”
“Nothing, nothing.”
Memory, though loitering by the way, had reached its goal at last. This man was no stranger. George recollected now where he had seen him before—on the roof of the Sheridan, when the other, clad in policeman’s uniform, had warned
