then went upon the street again, as if starting to another place. They slipped through a dark alley, emerged on a side street and hurried along it, maintaining a conversation that had to do with fish and market prices.
After a time they came to a public square in an old section of the city. Here were business houses that had been there for scores of years, famous establishments that scorned to move to a more modern district of the town.
They stopped on a corner and talked loudly, half quarreling, as intoxicated fishermen might be expected to do. A policeman warned them to lower their voices and behave, and they went on up the street, slowly, staggering a bit, laughing now and then.
On the next corner was a bakery. The basement door was open, and a baker stood in it. Odors of fresh bread and cakes poured out.
"Um!" one of the fishermen gasped. "Any chance to get some hot bread?"
"Do you happen to have the price?" the baker asked.
"We sure have!"
A passing pedestrian heard the conversation, smiled, and walked on.
"Come downstairs, then," the baker said.
They descended the stairs and entered the oven department. They threw coins on a table, and each was given a loaf of warm bread, and they began eating, still laughing and talking. The baker's assistant had finished his work and washed up, and now was telling his employer good night. He hurried up the steps and went away.
