or varnish?” said the sailor, tweaking him roughly in his larded ribs. McGuire grunted.
“Is it over, son?” said Coker quietly.
“Yes,” said Eugene.
Coker took the long cigar from his mouth and grinned malarially at the boy.
“Feel better, don’t you, son?” he said.
“Yes,” said Eugene. “A hell of a lot.”
“Well, Eugenics,” said the sailor briskly, “what are you eating?”
“What’s the man got?” said Eugene, staring at the greasy card. “Have you got any young roast whale left?”
“No,” said the counter-man. “We did have some, but we run out.”
“How about the fricasseed bull?” said Luke. “Have you got any of that?”
“You don’t need any one to fricassee your bull, son,” said McGuire. “You’ve got plenty as it is.”
Their bull-laughter bellowed in the beanery.
With puckered forehead, Luke stuttered over the menu.
“F-f-f-fried chicken a la Maryland,” he muttered. “A la Maryland?” he repeated as if puzzled. “Now, ain’t that nice?” he said, looking around with mincing daintiness.
“Bring me one of your this week’s steaks,” said Eugene, “well done, with a meat-axe and the sausage-grinder.”
“What do you want the sausage-grinder for, son?” said Coker.
“That’s for the mince pie,” said Eugene.
“Make it two,” said Luke, “with a coupla cups of Mock-a, just like mother still makes.”
He looked crazily around at Eugene, and burst into loud whah-whahs, prodding him in the ribs.
“Where they got you stationed now, Luke?” said Harry Tugman, peering up snoutily from a mug of coffee.
“At the p-p-p-present time in Norfolk at the Navy Base,” Luke answered, “m-m-making the world safe for hypocrisy.”
“Do you ever get out to sea, son?” said Coker.
“Sure!” said Luke. “A f-f-five cent ride on the street-car brings me right out to the beach.”
