Babylon Revisited by F. Scott Fitzgerald, JAMES L. W. WEST III

saw the fair-haired one with the prominent teeth stop, look unsteadily at the man and girl opposite, and then begin to move his head disapprovingly from side to side.
    The man with the blood-shot eyes looked up.
    “Gordy,” said the promenader with the prominent teeth, “Gordy.”
    “Hello,” said the man with the stained shirt thickly.
    Prominent Teeth shook his finger pessimistically at the pair, giving the woman a glance of aloof condemnation.
    “What’d I tell you Gordy?”
    Gordon stirred in his seat.
    “Go to hell!” he said.
    Dean continued to stand there shaking his finger. The woman began to get angry.
    “You go away!” she cried fiercely. “You’re drunk, that’s what you are!”
    “So’s he,” suggested Dean, staying the motion of his finger and pointing it at Gordon.
    Peter Himmel ambled up, owlish now and oratorically inclined.
    “Here now,” he began as if called upon to deal with some petty dispute between children. “Wha’s all trouble?”
    “You take your friend away,” said Jewel tartly. “He’s bothering us.”
    “What’s ’at?”
    “You heard me!” she said shrilly. “I said to take your drunken friend away.”
    Her rising voice rang out above the clatter of the restaurant and a waiter came hurrying up.
    “You gotta be more quiet!”
    “That fella’s drunk,” she cried. “He’s insulting us.”
    “Ah-ha, Gordy,” persisted the accused. “What’d I tell you.” He turned to the waiter. “Gordy an’ I friends. Been tryin’ help him, haven’t I, Gordy?”
    Gordy looked up.
    “Help me? Hell, no!”
    Jewel rose suddenly, and seizing Gordon’s arm assisted him to his feet.
    “Come on, Gordy!” she said, leaning toward him and speaking in a half whisper. “Let’s us get out of here. This fella’s got a mean drunk on.”
    Gordon allowed himself to be urged to his feet and started toward the door. Jewel turned for a second and addressed the provoker of their flight.
    “I know all about
you!”
she said fiercely. “Nice friend, you are, I’ll say. He told me about you.”
    Then she seized Gordon’s arm, and together they made their way through the curious crowd, paid their check, and went out.
    “You’ll have to sit down,” said the waiter to Peter after they had gone.
    “What’s ’at? Sit down?”
    “Yes—or get out.”
    Peter turned to Dean.
    “Come on,” he suggested. “Let’s beat up this waiter.”
    “All right.”
    They advanced toward him, their faces grown stern. The waiter retreated.
    Peter suddenly reached over to a plate on the table beside him and picking up a handful of hash tossed it into the air. It descended as a languid parabola in snowflake effect on the heads of those near by.
    “Hey! Ease up!”
    “Put him out!”
    “Sit down, Peter!”
    “Cut out that stuff!”
    Peter laughed and bowed.
    “Thank you for your kind applause, ladies and gents. If some onewill lend me some more hash and a tall hat we will go on with the act.”
    The bouncer hustled up.
    “You’ve gotta get out!” he said to Peter.
    “Hell, no!”
    “He’s my friend!” put in Dean indignantly.
    A crowd of waiters were gathering. “Put him out!”
    “Better go, Peter.”
    There was a short struggle and the two were edged and pushed toward the door.
    “I got a hat and a coat here!” cried Peter.
    “Well, go get ’em and be spry about it!”
    The bouncer released his hold on Peter, who, adopting a ludicrous air of extreme cunning, rushed immediately around to the other table, where he burst into derisive laughter and thumbed his nose at the exasperated waiters.
    “Think I just better wait a l’il’ longer,” he announced.
    The chase began. Four waiters were sent around one way and four another. Dean caught hold of two of them by the coat, and another struggle took place before the pursuit of Peter could be resumed; he was finally pinioned after overturning a sugar-bowl and several cups of coffee. A fresh argument ensued at the cashier’s desk,