“I don’t see why, you can always get a job as a draftsman.”
“That’s a fine future I muss say, to spend ma life with the corner of a draftintable stuck in ma bally. . . . Christamighty man!”
“Well Specker and Sandbourne may be a famous firm yet.”
“People’ll be goin round in flyin machines by that time an you and me’ll be laid out with our toes to the daisies.”
“Here’s luck anyway.”
“Here’s lead in yer pencil, George.”
They drank down the Martinis and started eating their oysters.
“I wonder if it’s true that oysters turn to leather in your stomach when you drink alcohol with em.”
“Search me. . . . Say by the way Phil how are you getting on with that little stenographer you were taking out?”
“Man the food an drink an theaters I’ve wasted on that lil girl. . . . She’s got me run to a standstill. . . . Honest she has. You’re a sensible feller, George, to keep away from the women.”
“Maybe,” said Baldwin slowly and spat an olive stone into his clenched fist.
The first thing they heard was the quavering whistle that came from a little wagon at the curb opposite the entrance to the ferry. A small boy broke away from the group of immigrants that lingered in the ferryhouse and ran over to the little wagon.
“Sure it’s like a steam engine an its fulla monkeynuts,” he yelled running back.
“Padraic you stay here.”
“And this here’s the L station, South Ferry,” went on Tim Halloran who had come down to meet them. “Up thataway’s Battery Park an Bowling Green an Wall Street
