18 ERNEST HEMINGWAY
"How old is your bird?" the elderly waitress asked.
"I don't know," Scripps said. "I never saw him before last night. I was walking on the railroad track from Mancelona. My wife left me."
"Poor little chap," the waitress said. She poured a little catsup on her finger and the bird pecked at it gratefully.
"My wife left me," Scripps said. "We'd been out drinking on the railroad track. We used to go out evenings and watch the trains pass. I write stores. I had a story in The Post and two in The Dial. Mencken's trying to get ahold of me. I'm too wise for that sort of thing. No politzei for mine. They give me the katzenjammers."
What was he saying? He was talking wildly. This would never do. He must pull himself together.
"Scofield Thayer was my best man," he said. "I'm a Harvard man. All I want is for them to give me and my bird a square deal. No more weltpolitik. Take Dr. Coolidge away."
His mind was wandering. He knew what it was. He was faint with hunger. This Northern air was too sharp, too keen for him.
"I say," he said. "Could you let me have just a few of those beans. I don't like to rush things. I know when to let well enough alone."
The wicket came up, and a large plate of beans and a small plate of beans, both steaming, appeared.
"Here they are," the waitress said.
Scripps fell to on the large plate of beans. There was a little pork, too. The bird was eating happily, raising its head after each swallow to let the beans go down.
"He does that to thank God for those beans," the elderly waitress explained.
