“Well,” he said, “how much longer has he got to live?” Seriously, in a low voice, he added: “There’s nothing wrong with him, is there?”
“No,” said McGuire, “I think he’s a little off his nut. But, then, you all are.”
When they came out on the street again, Ben said:
“Have you had anything to eat?”
“No,” said Eugene.
“When did you eat last?”
“Some time yesterday,” said Eugene. “I don’t remember.”
“You damned fool!” Ben muttered. “Come on—let’s eat.”
The idea became very attractive. The world was washed pleasantly in the milky winter sunshine. The town, under the stimulus of the holidays and the returning students, had wakened momentarily from its winter torpor: warm brisk currents of life seethed over the pavements. He walked along at Ben’s side with a great bounding stride, unable to govern the expanding joy that rose yeastily in him. Finally, as he turned in on the busy avenue, he could restrain himself no longer: he leaped high in the air, with a yelp of ecstasy:
“Squee-ee!”
“You little idiot!” Ben cried sharply. “Are you crazy!”
He scowled fiercely, then turned to the roaring passersby, with a thin smile.
“Hang on to him, Ben!” yelled Jim Pollock. He was a deadly little man, waxen and smiling under a black mustache, the chief compositor, a Socialist.
“If you cut off his damned big feet,” said Ben, “he’d go up like a balloon.”
They went into the big new lunch-room and sat at one of the tables.
“What’s yours?” said the waiter.
“A cup of coffee and a piece of mince pie,” said Ben.
“I’ll take the same,” said Eugene.
“Eat!” said Ben fiercely. “Eat!”
Eugene studied the card thoughtfully.
“Bring me some veal cutlets breaded with tomato sauce,” he
