That he swallowed all these things and seemed not to
notice them, struck Sandy as being almost as remarkable as his
matrimonial adventure.
When he had eaten, Ford buttoned himself into his overcoat, pulled his
moleskin cap well down, and went out into the storm without a word to
Sandy, which was also unusual; it was Ford's custom to wash the dishes,
because he objected to Sandy's economy of clean, hot water. Sandy
flattened his nose against the window, saw that Ford, leaning well
forward against the drive of the wind, was battling his way toward the
hotel, and guessed shrewdly that he would see him no more that day.
"He better keep sober till his knuckles git well, anyway," he mumbled
disapprovingly. "If he goes to fighting, the shape he's in now--"
Ford had no intention of fighting. He went straight up to the bar, it is
true, but that was because he saw that Sam was at that moment
unoccupied, save with a large lump of gum. Being at the bar, he drank a
glass of whisky; not of deliberate intent, but merely from force of
habit. Once down, however, the familiar glow of it through his being was
exceedingly grateful, and he took another for good measure.
Pages:
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36