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“He’s courteous,” said the chef. He wiped his lips.

“The young gentleman’s father is the world’s champion.”

“At what?”

“At drinking.”

“He’s mighty courteous,” said the chef. “How did you eat last night?”

“With that collection of yellow boys.”

“They all together still?”

“Between Chicago and Detroit. We call ’em the White Eskimos now.”

“Well,” said the chef. “Everything’s got its place.” He broke two eggs on the side of a frying pan. “Ham and eggs for the son of the champion?”

“Thanks,” I said.

“How about some of that courtesy?”

“Yes sir.”

“May your father remain undefeated,” the chef said to me. He licked his lips. “Does the young gentleman drink too?”

“No sir,” said George. “He’s in my charge.”

The chef put the ham and eggs on two plates.

“Seat yourselves, gentlemen.”

George and I sat down and he brought us two cups of coffee and sat down opposite us.

“You willing to part with another example of that courtesy?”

“For the best,” said George. “We got to get back to the car. How is the railroad business?”

“Rails are firm,” said the chef. “How’s Wall Street?”

“The bears are bulling again,” said George. “A lady bear ain’t safe today.”

“Bet on the Cubs,” said the chef. “The Giants are too big for the league.”

George laughed and the chef laughed.

“You’re a very courteous fellow,” George said. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Run along,” said the chef. “Lackawannius is calling you.”

“I love that girl,” said George. “Who touches a hair—”

“Run along,” said the chef. “Or those yellow boys will get you.”

“It’s a pleasure, sir,” said George. “It’s a very real pleasure.”

“Run along.”

“Just one more courteous action.”

The chef wiped his lips. “God speed the parting guest,” he said.

“I’ll be in for breakfast,” George said.

“Take your unearned increment,” the chef said. George put the bottle in his pocket.

“Good-bye to a noble soul,” he said.

“Get the hell out of here,” said one of the niggers who was playing cards.

“Good-bye, gentlemen all,” George said.

“Good night, sir,” said the chef. We went out.

We went back up to our car and George looked at the number board. There was a number twelve and a number five showing. George pulled a little thing down and the numbers disappeared.

“You better sit here and be comfortable,” he said.

I sat down in the washroom and waited and he went down the aisle. In a little while he came back.

“They’re all happy now,” he said. “How do you like the railroad business, Jimmy?”

“How did you know my name?”

“That’s what your father calls you, ain’t it?”

“Sure.”

“Well,” he said.

“I like it fine,” I said. “Do you and the chef always talk that way?”

“No, James,” he said. “We only talk that way when we’re enthused.”

“Just when you have a drink,” I said.

“Not that alone. When we’re enthused from any cause. The chef and I are kindred spirits.”

“What are kindred spirits?”

“Gentlemen with the same outlook on life.”

I did not say anything and the bell buzzed. George went out, pulled the little thing in the box and came back in the room.

“Did you ever see a man cut with a razor?”

“No.”

“Would you like to have it explained?”

“Yes.”

The bell buzzed again. “I’d better go see,” George went out.

He came back and sat down by me. “The use of the razor,” he said, “is an art not alone known to the barbering profession.” He looked at me. “Don’t you make them big eyes,” he said. “I’m only lecturing.”

“I’m not scared.”

“I should say you’re not,” said George. “You’re here with your greatest friend.”

“Sure,” I said. I figured he was pretty drunk.

“Your father got a lot of this?” He took out the bottle.

“I don’t know.”

“Your father is a type of noble Christian gentleman.” He took a drink.

I didn’t say anything.

“Returning to the razor,” George said. He reached in the inside pocket of his coat and brought out a razor. He laid it closed on the palm of his left hand.

The palm was pink.

“Consider the razor,” George said. “It toils not, neither does it spin.”

He held it out on the palm of his hand. It had a black bone handle.