They stood thus, less than a yard apart–one blond, tall and powerfully built, leaning far forward, big shoulders hunched, big fists ready; the other dark of hair and eye, tall and lean, body bent a little to one side with an arm slanting down from that side to hold a heavy glass seidel by its handle–and except for their breathing there was no sound in the room. No sound came in from the bar-room on the other side of the thin door, the rattling of glasses nor the hum of talk nor the splash of water.
When quite two minutes had passed Ned Beaumont took his hand away from the seidel and turned his back to Madvig. Nothing changed in Ned Beaumont’s face except that his eyes, when no longer focused on Madvig’s, became hard and cold instead of angrily glaring. He took an unhurried step towards the door.
Madvig spoke hoarsely from deep down in him. “Ned.”
Ned Beaumont halted. His face became paler. He did not turn around.
Madvig said: “You crazy son of a bitch.”
Then Ned Beaumont turned around, slowly.
Madvig put out an open hand and pushed Ned Beaumont’s face sidewise, shoving him off balance so he had to put a foot out quickly to that side and put a hand on one of the chairs at the table.
Madvig said: “I ought to knock hell out of you.”
Ned Beaumont grinned sheepishly and sat down on the chair he had staggered against. Madvig sat down facing him and knocked on the top of the table with his seidel
The bar-tender opened the door and put his head in.
“More beer,” Madvig said.
From the bar-room, through the open door, came the sound of men talking and the sound of glasses rattling against glasses and against wood.
IV.
The Dog House
1
Ned Beaumont, at breakfast in bed, called, “Come in,” and then, when the outer door had opened and closed: “Yes?”
A low-pitched rasping voice in the living-room asked: “Where are you, Ned?” Before Ned Beaumont could reply the rasping voice’s owner had come to the bedroom-door and was saying: “Pretty soft for you.” He was a sturdy young man with a square-cut sallow face, a wide thick-lipped mouth, from a corner of which a cigarette dangled, and merry dark squinting eyes.
“‘Lo, Whisky,” Ned Beaumont said to him. “Treat yourself to a chair.”
Whisky looked around the room. “Pretty good dump you’ve got here,” he said. He removed the cigarette from his lips and, without turning his head, used the cigarette to point over his shoulder at the living-room behind him. “What’s all the keysters for? Moving out?”
Ned Beaumont thoroughly chew-ed and swallowed the scrambled eggs in his mouth before replying: “Thinking of it.”
Whisky said, “Yes?” while moving towards a chair that faced the bed. He sat down. “Where to?”
“New York maybe.”
“What do you mean maybe?”
Ned Beaumont said: “Well, I’ve got a ducat that reads to there, any way.”
Whisky knocked cigarette-ash on the floor and returned the cigarette to the left side of his mouth. He snuffled. “How long you going to be gone?”
Ned Beaumont held a coffee-cup half-way between the tray and his mouth. He looked thoughtfully over it at the sallow young man. Finally he said, “It’s a one-way ticket,” and drank.
Whisky squinted at Ned Beaumont now until one of his dark eyes was entirely shut and the other was no more than a thin black gleam. He took the cigarette from his mouth and knocked more ash on the floor. His rasping voice held a persuasive note. “Why don’t you see Shad before you go?” he suggested.
Ned Beaumont put his cup down and smiled. He said: “Shad and I aren’t good enough friends that his feelings’lI be hurt if I go away without saying good-by.”
Whisky said: “That ain’t ti-me point.”
Ned Beaumont moved the tray from his lap to the bedside-table. He turned on his side, propping himself up on an elbow on the pillows. He pulled the bed-clothes higher up over his chest. Then he asked: “What is the point?”
“The point is you and Shad ought to be able to do business together.”