Part 62 (2/2)
”All right.... But maybe you won't want to room where I do, Walters.”
”Where's that? In the Latin Quarter?... You bet. I want to see some French life while I am about it.”
”Well, it's too late to get a room to-day.”
”I'm going to the 'Y' tonight anyway.”
”I'll get a fellow I know to put me up.... Then tomorrow, we'll see.
Well, so long,” said Andrews, moving away.
”Wait. I'm coming with you.... We'll walk around town together.”
”All right,” said Andrews.
The rabbit was rather formless, very fluffy and had a glance of madness in its pink eye with a black center. It hopped like a sparrow along the pavement, emitting a rubber tube from its back, which went up to a bulb in a man's hand which the man pressed to make the rabbit hop. Yet the rabbit had an air of organic completeness. Andrews laughed inordinately when he first saw it. The vendor, who had a basket full of other such rabbits on his arm, saw Andrews laughing and drew timidly near to the table; he had a pink face with little, sensitive lips rather like a real rabbit's, and large frightened eyes of a wan brown.
”Do you make them yourself?” asked Andrews, smiling.
The man dropped his rabbit on the table with a negligent air.
”Oh, oui, Monsieur, d'apres la nature.”
He made the rabbit turn a somersault by suddenly pressing the bulb hard.
Andrews laughed and the rabbit man laughed.
”Think of a big strong man making his living that way,” said Walters, disgusted.
”I do it all... de matiere premiere au profit de l'accapareur,” said the rabbit man.
”h.e.l.lo, Andy... late as h.e.l.l.... I'm sorry,” said Henslowe, dropping down into a chair beside them. Andrews introduced Walters, the rabbit man took off his hat, bowed to the company and went off, making the rabbit hop before him along the edge of the curbstone.
”What's happened to Heineman?”
”Here he comes now,” said Henslowe.
An open cab had driven up to the curb in front of the cafe. In it sat Heineman with a broad grin on his face and beside him a woman in a salmon-colored dress, ermine furs and an emerald-green hat. The cab drove off and Heineman, still grinning, walked up to the table.
”Where's the lion cub?” asked Henslowe.
”They say it's got pneumonia.”
”Mr. Heineman. Mr. Walters.”
The grin left Heineman's face; he said: ”How do you do?” curtly, cast a furious glance at Andrews and settled himself in a chair.
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