MR. Y. Who is he?
MR. X. I don't want to name him, but--I used for several years to
take my meals at a certain place, and there, at the side-table
where they kept the whiskey and the otter preliminaries, I met a
little blond man, with blond, faded eyes. He had a wonderful
faculty for making his way through a crowd, without jostling
anybody or being jostled himself. And from his customary place
down by the door he seemed perfectly able to reach whatever he
wanted on a table that stood some six feet away from him. He
seemed always happy just to be in company. But when he met anybody
he knew, then the joy of it made him roar with laughter, and he
would hug and pat the other fellow as if he hadn't seen a human
face for years. When anybody stepped on his foot, he smiled as if
eager to apologise for being in the way. For two years I watched
him and amused myself by guessing at his occupation and character.
But I never asked who he was; I didn't want to know, you see, for
then all the fun would have been spoiled at once. That man had
just your quality of being indefinite. At different times I made
him out to be a teacher who had never got his licence, a non-
commissioned officer, a druggist, a government clerk, a detective-
-and like you, he looked as if made out of two pieces, for the
front of him never quite fitted the back.
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