"Yes."
"Come on, then."
He walked as rapidly as his uncertain footing permitted, and Don staggered along beside him, between the dull glow of little shop-front windows and the churned sludge of the gutters, seeing only these two features of the streets, for his eyes were busy picking out a foothold on the treacherous stones. Pittsey stopped before a basement saloon that was down three stone steps below the level of the sidewalk. "Give me your papers." He left Don gazing at an arch of frosted gas globes bearing the sign "Caffé Sociale." On a board beside the entrance there had once been painted: "Giuoco di Boccia." Through the dirty windows he saw a fat Italian serving drinks over the bar—Italians sitting at round tables with their feet in sawdust—more Italians playing a game of billiards that included five pins set up as if for a miniature game of bowls. Whenever the door opened he smelled a warm odour of damp sawdust and stale beer, and he heard the squeak of a violin and the punctuating loud note of a cornet. He saw Pittsey pass the papers over the bar and turn back to the door again. And with a sudden resolution, Don stumbled down the steps and met him. "I'm going to wait and see him," he said. "You needn't stay."
Pittsey passed him without replying, and disappeared up the steps into the fog. Don went in, shut the door behind him and faced a tragic adventure.
