For a moment one of the two men lifted a corner
of it. He peered out, only to drop it with a disgusted sigh and return
to his high-ball.
He was slender, young, pale-eyed, pale-haired, white-handed,
anemic-looking. He was patently of the sort which considers such a
thing as carelessness in the matter of a crease in one's trousers a
crime of crimes. His tie, adjusted with a precision which was a
science, was of a pale lavender. His socks were silk and of the same
color. His eyes were as near a pale lavender as they were near any
color.
"The devilish stupid sameness of this country gets on a man's nerves."
He put his disgust into drawling words. "Suppose it's like this all
the way to 'Frisco?"
His companion, stretching his legs a bit farther under the table, made
no answer.
"I said something then," the lavender young gentleman said, peevishly.
"What's the matter with you, Greek?"
Greek took his arms down from the back of his chair where he had
clasped his hands behind his head, and finished his own high-ball.
Nature in the beginning of things for him had been more kind than to
his petulant friend. He was scarcely more than a boy--twenty-five,
perhaps, from the looks of him--but physically a big man. He might
have weighed a hundred and eighty pounds, and he was maybe an inch
over six feet. But evidently where nature had left off there had been
nobody to go on save the tailor.
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