So Little Time Read Free

nose. The scene had caused a flurry, and nearly everyone else in the car was standing up.
    â€œSit down,” Jeffrey said, “and have a drink.”
    â€œGo on,” the stranger shouted, “like I tol’ you, and bite my thumb.”
    There was a novelty in the invitation which appealed to the smoking car.
    â€œGo ahead and bite it, fella,” someone called, “if he wants you to.”
    There was only one thing to do under the circumstances. Jeffrey took the stranger’s thumb and placed it between his back teeth and bit it hard. The little man did not wince. On the contrary, he seemed pleased.
    â€œYou get me, do you?” he inquired. “No sensation; I bust it, see? On Attell’s jaw, seventh round at the Arena. Now you know me, don’t you, Bud?”
    â€œI ought to,” Jeffrey said, “but I’ve been away for quite a while.”
    The stranger held out his hand, which was marked by the indentations of Jeffrey’s teeth.
    â€œI can lick any son-of-a-bitch my weight,” he said. “My name’s Kid Regan—get me, Kid Regan, Bud, and if you don’t believe it, look at this.”
    With a quick gesture, he unbuttoned the front of his green striped shirt and displayed a blue spread eagle tattooed upon his chest.
    â€œNow,” he asked, “you believe I’m Kid Regan, don’t you, Bud?”
    â€œYes,” Jeffrey said, “that certainly ties it all together.”
    The stranger sank back in his seat.
    â€œWell, for Christ sake, let’s take something—” he said, and he pulled out his bottle.
    Jeffrey stopped and poured himself another cup of coffee while his wife sat looking at him. He could still hear the sounds of the smoking car, and he could still feel it sway.
    â€œJeffrey,” Madge asked, “did you make that up?”
    â€œNo, I didn’t make it up,” he said. “It’s the sort of thing that happens. People act that way sometimes.”
    There was another silence; he could still hear the rattle of the car.
    â€œWell,” Madge asked, “go on, what else?”
    â€œThere wasn’t anything else,” Jeffrey told her. “When I got to the telegraph room, there was Walter Newcombe. Old Fernald had hired him that day. I just happened to remember it—there isn’t anything else.”
    There was another silence while Jeffrey stirred his coffee.
    â€œDarling,” Madge said, “why didn’t you ever tell me about that little man before? I love it when you tell me things, and it’s quite a funny story.”
    Jeffrey shook his head. “It isn’t really funny. Basically, it’s sad. Maybe that’s why I never told you.”
    â€œSad?” his wife repeated. It was exactly what Jeffrey had meant. It was not her fault, but you could not tell her things like that.
    â€œYes,” he said, “he was a sad little man. You see, he knew that he was through. He knew that he couldn’t lick any son-of-a-bitch his weight in the world, darling.” And Jeffrey looked out of the window at the buildings stretching beneath them, and there wasn’t anything more to say.
    â€œTell me some more about Walter Newcombe,” Madge asked him.
    â€œThere isn’t any more to tell, darling,” Jeffrey said, “he was just in the old telegraph room.”
    â€œBut you haven’t told me anything,” she said, “not anything at all.”
    Jeffrey picked up his own mail beside the coffee cup.
    â€œMaybe I’ll think of something later,” he said, “but it’s getting late now.” And Madge sat looking at him.
    â€œDarling,” she said, “I love it when you tell me things. That little man—maybe he was sad.”
    Jeffrey’s mind was not where he wanted it, at all. He did not seem to be in New York; he did not seem to be anywhere. That was the trouble with getting mixed up in reminiscence which had