He asked questions, but the men he addressed were too busy to bother
with him; some did not hear, others stared at him in distrust, and many
tendered flippant remarks, such as "Ask a policeman;" "You'll find him
in the bar;" "He's gone to Europe."
Even Mortimer's unpracticed mind realized speedily that it would be
nothing short of a miracle if he were to find anyone in all those
inpatient thousands who even knew the person he was seeking. One young
man he spoke to declared that he knew Alan Porter quite well; he was a
great friend of his; he'd find him in a minute. This obliging
stranger's quest led them into the long race track bar room, which
somehow or other suggested to Mortimer a cattle shambles.
Behind the bar young men in white coats, even some in their shirt
sleeves, were setting forth on its top, with feverish haste, clinking
glasses that foamed and fretted much like the thirsty souls who called
vociferously for liquid refreshment. Everybody seemed on fire--burnt up
by the thirst of a consuming fever, the fever of speculation.
Mortimer's new friend suggested that they indulge in beer while waiting
for the sought one's appearance, and waxing confidential he assured his
quarry that he had a leadpipe cinch for the next race--it couldn't lose.
Pages:
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357