" He had to be held in his seat, so
it was recorded, while he wrote.
Tommy, it seemed, had just "blown in" to town that morning.
It was characteristic of Mr. Sims's idea of the old gang
that the only way in which any of them were supposed to
enter a town was to "blow in."
"When did you say you 'blew in,' Tommy?" he asked about
half a dozen times during our lunch. In reality, the
reckless, devil-may-care fellow Vidal had "blown in" to
bring his second daughter to a boarding school--a thing
no doubt contemplated months ahead. But Mr. Sims insisted
in regarding Tommy's movements as purely fortuitous, the
sport of chance. He varied his question by asking "When
do you expect to 'blow out' Tommy?" Tommy's answers he
forgot at once.
We sat and talked after lunch, and it pained me to notice
that Tommy Vidal was restless and anxious to get away.
Mr. Sims offered him cigars, thick as ropes and black as
night, but he refused them. It appeared that he had long
since given up smoking. It affected his eyes, he said.
The deferential waiter brought brandy and curacoa in long
thin glasses. But Mr. Vidal shook his head. He hadn't
had a drink, he said, for twenty years.
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