"Oh, by the way, Pedro," called Mr. Bormanshire, to the thin man with the tray, who stopped and turned.
"Yeah, Mr. Bormanshire?"
"Better bring us another round of Rob Roys while you're at it."
"Four more Rob Roys?"
"Yes, please."
"Comin' right up, Mr. Bormanshire."
Milford said nothing. What was the use? Just because they were bringing him another Rob Roy didn't mean he had to drink it.
The thin small fellow disappeared into the swirling clouds of smoke and the blathering of drunken men, carried away swiftly on his little legs.
"And now," said Mr. Bormanshire, raising his glass, "I should like if I may to propose a toast."
"Hear, hear," said Mr. Bogman, also raising his glass.
"Mr. Bobbington," said Mr. Bormanshire to Addison, "if you will raise your glass, sir."
Addison obediently raised his glass, which it must be said still held perhaps a half-inch of scotch finely blended with dry vermouth.
"And Mr. Mufford," said Mr. Bormanshire to Milford, "if you too will raise your glass, young sir."
Not wanting to argue, Milford raised his glass.
"I propose a toast then," said Mr. Bormanshire, "to our two newest members of the sacred and noble Society of the Prancing Fool, the good Messrs. Babbington and Mufton. Long may they prance, and prance like the fools they are!"
"Hear, hear!" said Mr. Bogman.
"And now, my friends, drink up!" said Mr. Bormanshire.
And all four drank, Addison finishing off what little was left of his Rob Roy, and Milford against his will but instinctively taking a good gulp of his own Rob Roy.
"Ah," said Mr. Bormanshire, putting down his now half-full glass. "So, gentlemen, in a sense, but a very real sense, you are indeed home now."
"Home at last," said Mr. Bogman, who had also half-emptied his glass, and who now picked the lemon twist out of it, and dropped it into his ashtray.
"Some call us failures," said Mr. Bormanshire.
"They do indeed, Bormanshire," said Mr. Bogman. "That and worse. The term never-has-been comes to mind."
"Untalented oafs they call us," said Mr. Bormanshire. He had a box of matches on the table in front of him, and he slid it open.
"Pathetic self-deluded idiots they deem us," said Mr. Bogman. "Looked down upon even by the lowest uninspired hacks and so-called ham-and-eggers of the literary and artistic worlds."
"Yea, verily, they call us fools," said Mr. Bormanshire. He struck a match on the side of the box, which Milford noticed bore the legend of the Hotel St. Crispian.
"Hopeless fools," said Mr. Bogman.
"In a phrase, prancing fools," said Mr. Bormanshire, relighting his pipe.
"Yeah, you're home now, boys," said Mr. Bogman, taking a deep drag on his cigar. "You ain't got to compare yourselves to all those bigshot hotshots no more. The Algernon Blackwoods. The James Branch Cabells. The Marcel Schwobs and the John Kendrick Bangses. The Amy Lowells and the John Greenleaf Whittiers."
"Never could abide Whittier," said Mr. Bormanshire, dropping his match into his ashtray
"Yeah, he sucks," said Mr. Bogman. "But the point is, lads, you ain't got to worry about them guys –"
"And gals," interjected Mr. Bormanshire.
"Right," said Mr. Bogman, "you ain't got to worry about comparing yourselves to them high-and-mighty literary panjandrums nor them stuck-up hoity-toity bluestocking bitches no more."
"Fuck 'em," said Mr. Bormanshire, puffing on his pipe. "Fuck 'em all."
"Fuck them all," repeated Mr. Bogman. "With abandon."
"Seven ways to Tuesday," said Mr. Bormanshire.
"We don't give a flying fuck," said Mr. Bogman.
"Not a whit," said Mr. Bormanshire.
"We'll carry on proudly writing our endless bad novels," said Mr. Bogman.
"Just as some of us will continue to write and rewrite the first pages of our bad novels, never even making it to page two," said Mr. Bormanshire.
"Or outlining our epic novels, outlines continually revised and abandoned and started up again," said Mr. Bogman.
"Epic poems, too," said Mr. Bormanshire. "Can't forget the epic poems."
"Epic poems never to be published, nor ever to be read," said Mr. Bogman.
"But most important," said Mr. Bormanshire, "we will continue to talk about the work."
"Endlessly," said Mr. Bogman.
"Sitting at tables like this," said Mr. Bormanshire,
"Or at the bar," said Mr. Bogman.
"Talking endlessly of the work, into the the endless night," said Mr. Bormanshire.
"Every night," said Mr. Bogman.
"Until we keel over," said Mr. Bormanshire.
"Dead," said Mr. Bogman, and he emptied his Rob Roy into his mouth at a gulp.
"Unknown to the greater world," said Mr. Bormanshire. "Not even forgotten, because how can someone be remembered who has never been known, save to his fellow prancing fools?"
"Here's your Rob Roys," said a voice, the voice of the thin little man named Pedro, standing there with his tray. "And the gingy ale for the young gentleman."
"Lay 'em down, dear Pedro," said Mr. Bormanshire, polishing off his own Rob Roy, "lay 'em down and thank you very much indeed."
Pedro made his way around the table, putting down the fresh Rob Roys and collecting the empties. When he came to Milford he stood there looking down at him until Milford finished off his Rob Roy. Then the little fellow took the empty glass and laid down the last fresh Rob Roy and a glass with something pale yellow in it, presumably ginger ale.
Milford preferred his ginger ale with ice, but he dared not request it. Who knew what the man would put in it besides ice?
"Youse ready to order some food," said the man.
"Go ahead, order some food, fellas," said Mr. Bormanshire.
Addison had been tasting his new drink, but now he picked up his menu.
"I must say the prices are quite reasonable," he said, "and I for one haven't eaten since breakfast."
"What'd you have for breakfast?" said Mr. Bogman.
"Two glazed doughnuts," said Addison, "and some several cups of chicory coffee."
"That's no kind of breakfast for a grown man, boy," said Mr. Bogman. "Now order some real food."
"How are the pork and beans?" asked Addison, having noticed that the dish was priced at only fifty cents.
"Excellent," said Mr. Bogman.
"Okay," said Addison, "I guess I'll take the pork and beans then."
"Sure, Ace," said Pedro, and he scribbled something on his pad. "You can get a fresh-baked hot cross bun with that, or Uneeda crackers if you prefer."
"I think I'll go with the Uneeda crackers," said Addison, suddenly suffused with childhood memories of being spoiled by his great-aunts with Uneeda crackers and Welch's grape jelly, washed down with bottles of Frank's cream soda.
"How about you, Pomford?" said Mr. Bormanshire to Milford. "Eat something, put some meat on your bones."
Milford wasn't sure if he was hungry, but then he thought maybe some food would sop up the Rob Roy he had stupidly drunk, and the fresh one sitting there before him waiting to be drunk.
"Well," he said, "what's this special of the day?"
"Today's dollar special," said Pedro,
"is calf's brains scrambled with three fresh farmyard eggs, home fries and blood pudding on the side, and your choice of ketchup or A.1. Sauce."
"Get it, Bumford," said Mr. Bormanshire. "The calf's brains here are absolutely to die for."
"I don't know," said Milford. "I've never had calf's brains, or blood pudding."
"Get him the calf's brains and scrambled, Pedro," said Mr. Bogman. "With the A.1."
"But," said Milford.
"And even though Mr. Bogman and I have already dined," said Mr. Bormanshire, "I'm feeling just a mite peckish, so bring me a large plate of liver and onions, extra onions, with a double portion of mashed potatoes and the red-eye gravy. What about you, Bogman?"
"Well, like you say, Bormanshire, we've already dined, but I'll take some ham and eggs, better make it a double order, and you know the way I like 'em, Pedro, over easy, with hash browns and extra toast and butter."
"Got it," said Pedro, scribbling. "Extra toast."
"And another round of Rob Roys," said Mr. Bormanshire.
"And a pitcher of Falstaff," said Mr. Bogman.
"But," said Milford.
"Four glasses with the pitcher," said Mr. Bormanshire.
"But," said Milford.
"Anything else?" said Pedro.
"But," said Milford.
"That's all for now, Pedro, thanks," said Mr. Bogman.
"But," said Milford, again.
Pedro turned away, and this time Milford was sure he heard the fellow say just one word:
"Pissant."
As the little man wandered away once again through the clouds of smoke and into that babble of boring voices, Milford felt something falling within his narrow chest, perhaps the last wispy remnants of his self-regard.
Were his humiliations never to end in this life?
Not at the rate you're going, said Stoney, his internal alter ego. Now stop your whining and have a drink like a man.
In spite to himself, despite himself, and to spite himself, Milford raised his cocktail glass full of deep golden liquid.
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