Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (292 page)

He
was
sitting
there
behind
a
nearly
empty
glass,
with
an
unlighted stump
of
cigarette
drooping
from
a
comer
of
his
mouth.
Everything about
him
was
drooping.
He
was
a
tall,
slack,
straggling
sort
of
fellow; his
thin
greying
hair
fell
forward
in
front;
his
nose
was
long,
with something
pendulous
about
its
reddened
tip;
his
moustache
drooped wearily;
and
even
his
chin
fell
away,
as
if
in
despair.
His
eye
had
that boiled
look
common
to
all
persevering
topers.

"Miserable
day,"
I
told
him.

"It
is,"
he
said.
"Rotten
day."
He
had
a
high-pitched
but
slightly husky
voice,
and
I
imagined
that
its
characteristic
tone
would
probably
be
querulous.

There
was
silence
then,
or
at
least
nothing
but
the
sound
of
the
rain outside
and
the
murmur
of
voices
from
the
bar.
I
stared
at
the
Highlanders
and
the
hunting
men
who,
from
various
parts
of
the
room, invited
you
to
try
somebody's
whisky
and
somebody
else's
port.

"Got
a
match?"
said
Mr.
Strenberry,
after
fumbling
in
his
pockets.

I
handed
him
my
matchbox
and
took
the
opportunity
of
moving
a little
nearer.
It
was
obvious
that
that
stump
of
cigarette
would
not
last him
more
than
half
a
minute,
so
I
offered
him
my
cigarette
case
too.

"Very
quiet
in
here,"
I
remarked.

"For
once,"
he
replied,
a
kind
of
weak
sneer
lighting
up
his
face. "Lucky
for
us
too.
There
are
more
fools
in
this
town
than
in
most, and
they
all
come
in
here.
Lot
of
loud-mouthed
idiots.
I
won't
talk
to 'em,
won't
waste
my
breath
on
'em.
They
think
there's
something wrong
with
me
here.
They
would."
He
carefully
drained
his
glass,
set
it down,
then
pushed
it
away.

I
hastened
to
finish
my
glass
of
bitter.
Then
I
made
a
pretence
of examining
the
weather.
"Looks
as
if
I
shall
have
to
keep
under
cover for
another
quarter
of
an
hour
or
so,"
I
said
carelessly.
"I'm
going
to have
another
drink.
Won't
you
join
me?"

After
a
little
vague
humming
and
spluttering,
he
said
he
would,
and thanked
me.
He
asked
for
a
double
whisky
and
a
small
soda.

"And
so
you
find
the
people
here
very
stupid?"
I
said,
after
we
had taken
toll
of
our
fresh
supply
of
drink.
"They
often
are
in
these
small towns."

"All
idiots,"
he
muttered.
"Not
a
man
with
an
educated
mind amongst
them.
But
then—education!
It's
a
farce,
that's
all
it
is,
a
farce. I
come
in
here—I
must
go
somewhere,
you
know—and
I
sit
in
a
corner and
say
nothing.
I
know
what
they're
beginning
to
think.
Oh,
I've seen
them—nudging,
you
know,
giving
each
other
the
wink.
I
don't care.
One
time
I
would
have
cared.
Now
I
don't.
It
doesn't
matter. Nothing
matters,
really."