Page 290 - tender-is-the-night

XVII

Tommy Barban was a ruler, Tommy was a hero—Dick hap-
pened upon him in the Marienplatz in Munich, in one of
those cafés, where small gamblers diced on ‘tapestry’ mats.
The air was full of politics, and the slap of cards.
Tommy was at a table laughing his martial laugh: ‘Um-
buh—ha-ha! Um-buh—ha-ha!’ As a rule, he drank little;
courage was his game and his companions were always a
little afraid of him. Recently an eighth of the area of his
skull had been removed by a Warsaw surgeon and was knit-
ting under his hair, and the weakest person in the café could
have killed him with a flip of a knotted napkin.
‘—this is Prince Chillicheff—‘ A battered, powder-gray
Russian of fifty, ‘—and Mr. McKibben—and Mr. Hannan—‘
the latter was a lively ball of black eyes and hair, a clown;
and he said immediately to Dick:
‘The first thing before we shake hands—what do you
mean by fooling around with my aunt?’
‘Why, I—‘
‘You heard me. What are you doing here in Munich any-
how?’
‘Um-bah—ha-ha!’ laughed Tommy.
‘Haven’t you got aunts of your own? Why don’t you fool
with them?’
Dick laughed, whereupon the man shifted his attack:

290 Tender is the Night