THE TORRENTS OF SPRING 19
"They're mighty fine beans, too," Scripps agreed. Under the influence of the beans his head was clearing. What was this rot he had been talking about that man Henry Mencken? Was Mencken really after him? It wasn't a pretty prospect to face. He had four hundred and fifty dollars in his pocket. When that was gone he could always put an end to things. If they pressed him too far they would get a big surprise. He wasn't the man to be taken alive. Just let them try it.
After eating his beans the bird had fallen asleep. He was sleeping on one leg, the other tucked up into his feathers.
"When he gets tired of sleeping on that leg he will change legs and rest," the waitress remarked. "We had an old osprey at home that was like that."
"Where was your home?" Scripps asked.
"In England. In the Lake District." The waitress smiled a bit wistfully. "Wordsworth's country, you know."
Ah, these English. They travelled all over the face of the globe. They were not content to remain in their little island. Strange Nordics, obsessed with their dream of empire.
"I was not always a waitress," the elderly waitress remarked.
"I'm sure you weren't."
"Not half," the waitress went on. "It's rather a strange story. Perhaps it would bore you?"
"Not at all," Scripps said. "You wouldn't mind if I used the story sometime?"
"Not if you find it interesting," the waitress smiled. "You wouldn't use my name, of course."
