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He liked young men, and his own young man would have been about the age of this one, had it not been for the defiant stubbornness of the German machine-gunners in the last days of the war.

“Here with my wife and daughter,” he volunteered. “What’s your name?”

“Corcoran,” answered the young man, pleasantly but without enthusiasm.

“You American—or English?”

“American.”

“What business you in?”

“None.”

“Been here long?” continued Bushmill stubbornly.

The young man hesitated.

“I was born here,” he said.

Bushmill blinked and his eyes roved involuntarily around the bar.

“Born here!” he repeated.

Corcoran smiled.

“Up on the fifth floor.”

The waiter set the two drinks and a dish of Saratoga chips on the table. Immediately Bushmill became aware of an interesting phenomenon—Corcoran’s hand commenced to flash up and down between the dish and his mouth, each journey transporting a thick layer of potatoes to the eager aperture, until the dish was empty.

“Sorry,” said Corcoran, looking rather regretfully at the dish. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his fingers. “I didn’t think what I was doing. I’m sure you can get some more.”