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Updated: June 13, 2025
The hall was dull, no one was clicking the balls about the green tables, and a solitary sick-looking man, with inky shadows under fixed eyes, was smoking a cigarette in a chair across from the cigar-stand. He looked over a thick magazine in a chocolate cover, his gaze arrested by her irresolute passage. "Hello, Bellina," he said. She stopped. "Linda," she corrected him, "Linda Condon."
If I loitered on the playground after school, or went to the post-office for the mail and lingered to hear the gossip about the cigar-stand, it would be growing dark by the time I came home. The sun was gone; the frozen streets stretched long and blue before me; the lights were shining pale in kitchen windows, and I could smell the suppers cooking as I passed.
To see what havoc he had wrought amazed Roy. The arcade looked as if a cyclone had swept through it. The cigar-stand was shattered beyond repair, its broken glass strewn everywhere. The chair of the bootblack had been splintered into kindling wood. Among the debris sat Meldrum groaning, both hands pressing a head that furiously ached.
On seeing Clemenceau approach his wife, the pretended Marseillais delicately withdrew to the corner of the sideboard where the cigar-stand tempted him. But he kept his eyes secretly on the two men who gave him more concern than the two women.
He thought he knew where he could get word of White-Eye's whereabouts, stopped at a cigar-stand and telephoned for his cab and his regular driver. In a few minutes the cab was at the corner. He mentioned a street number to the driver, who nodded knowingly. Pony Baxter's place where the game ran big. No place for a tin-horn. Only the real ones played at Pony's.
"You mention the cigar-stand first." "Why not? Smoke is more real than empty sound." "Are you not equally empty, Ik, save after dinner? How have the preceding hours of this long day been killed?" "Like boas. They have enfolded me with a weary weight." "The snakes in your comparison are larger than your pun, and the pun, rather than yourself, suggests a constrictor's squeeze."
At Clay we pass a saloon with a cigar-stand in front and find a group listening to a man with bushy hair and a reddish mustache, who in an easy attitude and in a quaintly drawling voice is telling a story. We await the laugh and pass on, and I say that he is a reporter, lately from Nevada, called Mark Twain.
You can never have too much material to work with. Let us see where he is going." Slowly we followed in the direction which Whitney had taken from the cafe. There was Whitney standing by the cigar-stand, gazing intently down the corridor. Kennedy and I moved over so that we could see what he was gazing at. Just then he started to walk hurriedly in the direction in which he was looking.
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