Tilting her chin, Ephraim kissed her. This was good. This was right.
This was all that mattered. He'd make Gertie a good husband. He--
A furtive rap on the door side-tracked his train of thought. He opened
it to find the old man in the hall, shaking as with palsy. "Now a look
a yere, Mister," he whispered. "If y' ain't done it, don't do it. Jist
pack yer bags and git." One palsied hand held out the crisp piece of
paper Ephraim had given him. "This yere fishin' license ain't for it."
Ephraim looked from the fishing license to his coat. The envelope had
fallen on the floor, scattering its contents. A foot away, under the
edge of the bed, his puppy eyes sad, Mr. Gorgeous was thoughtfully
masticating the last of what once had been another crisp piece of
paper. As Ephraim watched, Mr. Gorgeous burped, and swallowed. It was,
as Silovitz had said, the little things.
* * * * *
It was three nights later, at dusk, when Mickey spotted the apparition.
For a moment he was startled. Then he knew it for what it was. It was
Nature Boy, back in costume, clutching a jug of rum to his bosom.
"Hey, Mister," Mickey stopped Ephraim. "I been looking all over for
you. My cousin's a scout for the Yankees. And when I told him about
your whip he said for you to come down to the stadium and show 'em what
you got."
Ephraim looked at the boy glass-eyed.
Mickey was hurt by his lack of enthusiasm. "Gee. Ain't you excited?
Wouldn't you like to be a big league ball player, the idol of every
red-blooded American boy? Wouldn't you like to make a lot of money and
have the girls crazy about you?"
The words reached through Ephraim's fog and touched a responsive
chord. Drawing himself up to his full height he clutched the jug still
tighter to his bosom with all of the dignity possible to a man without
pants.
"Ya fadder's mustache," he said.
Then staggering swiftly into the cave he closed the rock door firmly
and finally behind him.