Men Without Women by Ernest Hemingway Page A

counter.
    “Got anything to drink?” Al asked.
    “Silver beer, bevo , ginger-ale,” George said.
    “I mean you got anything to drink ?”
    “Just those I said.”
    “This is a hot town,” said the other. “What do they call it?”
    “Summit.”
    “Ever hear of it?” Al asked his friend.
    “No,” said the friend.
    “What do you do here nights?” Al asked.
    “They eat the dinner,” his friend said. “They all come here and eat the big dinner.”
    “That’s right,” George said.
    “So you think that’s right?” Al asked George.
    “Sure.”
    “You’re a pretty bright boy, aren’t you?”
    “Sure,” said George.
    “Well, you’re not,” said the other little man. “Is he, Al?”
    “He’s dumb,” said Al. He turned to Nick. “What’s your name?”
    “Adams.”
    “Another bright boy,” Al said. “Ain’t he a bright boy, Max?”
    “The town’s full of bright boys,” Max said.
    George put down two platters, one of ham and eggs, the other of bacon and eggs, on the counter. He set down two side dishes of fried potatoes and closed the wicket into the kitchen.
    “Which is yours?” he asked Al.
    “Don’t you remember?”
    “Ham and eggs.”
    “Just a bright boy,” Max said. He leaned forward and took the ham and eggs. Both men ate with their gloves on. George watched them eat.
    “What are you looking at?” Max looked at George.
    “Nothing.”
    “The hell you were. You were looking at me.”
    “Maybe the boy meant it for a joke Max,” Al said.
    George laughed.
    “ You don’t have to laugh,” Max said to him. “ You don’t have to laugh at all, see?”
    “All right,” said George.
    “So he thinks it’s all right,” Max turned to Al. “He thinks it’s all right. That’s a good one.”
    “Oh, he’s a thinker,” Al said. They went on eating.
    “What’s the bright boy’s name down the counter?” Al asked Max.
    “Hey, bright boy,” Max said to Nick. “You go around on the other side of the counter with your boy friend.”
    “What’s the idea?” Nick asked.
    “There isn’t any idea.”
    “You better go around, bright boy,” Al said. Nick went around behind the counter.
    “What’s the idea?” George asked.
    “None of your damn business,” Al said. “Who’s out in the kitchen?”
    “The nigger.”
    “What do you mean the nigger?”
    “The nigger that cooks.”
    “Tell him to come in.”
    “What’s the idea?”
    “Tell him to come in.”
    “Where do you think you are?”
    “We know damn well where we are ,, the man called Max said. “Do we look silly?”
    “You talk silly,” Al said to him. “What the hell do you argue with this kid for? Listen,” he said to George, “ tell the nigger to come out here.”
    “What are you going to do to him?”
    “Nothing. Use your head, bright boy. What would we do to a nigger?”
    George opened the slip that opened back into the kitchen. “Sam,” he called. “Come in here a minute.”
    The door of the kitchen opened and the nigger came in. “What was it?” he asked. The two men at the counter took a look at him.
    “All right, nigger. You stand right there,” Al said.
    Sam, the nigger, standing in his apron, looked at the two men sitting at the counter. “Yes, sir,” he said. Al got down from his stool.
    “I’m going back to the kitchen with the nigger and bright boy,” he said. “Go back to the kitchen, nigger. You go with him, bright boy.” The little man walked after Nick and Sam, the cook, back into the kitchen. The door shut after them. The man called Max sat at the counter opposite George. He didn’t look at George but looked in the mirror that ran along back of the counter. Henry’s had been made over from a saloon into a lunch-counter.
    “Well, bright boy,” Max said, looking into the mirror, “why don’t you say something?”
    “What’s it all about?”
    “Hey, Al,” Max called, “bright boy wants to know what it’s all about.”
    “Why don’t you tell him?” Al’s