A portly man whose face was adorned
with symmetrical scrolls of yellow hair had come out of a glass cage in
the rear of the store and was bearing down upon Anthony. "See
here, you!"
"How many?" repeated the salesman sternly. "You taken up my time--"
"Hey, you!" cried the proprietor, "I'll have you taken up by the
police."
"You mos' cert'nly won't!" returned Anthony with fine defiance. "All I
want know is how many."
From here and there in the store went up little clouds of comment and
expostulation.
"How terrible!"
"He's a raving maniac."
"He's disgracefully drunk."
The proprietor grasped Anthony's arm sharply.
"Get out, or I'll call a policeman."
Some relics of rationality moved Anthony to nod and replace his bonds
clumsily in the case.
"How many?" he reiterated doubtfully.
"The whole force if necessary!" thundered his adversary, his yellow
mustache trembling fiercely.
"Sell 'em all a bon'."
With this Anthony turned, bowed gravely to his late auditors, and
wabbled from the store. He found a taxicab at the corner and rode home
to the apartment. There he fell sound asleep on the sofa, and so Gloria
found him, his breath filling the air with an unpleasant pungency, his
hand still clutching his open brief case.
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