There were more people at the Fender station. Sonic little school children were lined up on one side of the platform. As the train pulled in, they waved the small flags in their hands and started to scream. Larue cursed and turned back to Pete.
"It's terrible, isn't it? All this noise!"
He wanted to slap the old man on the back, but Nevers stared intently ahead. A few more people got on at Fender. A few got off. The run now was to the station in the yards where the el cars had made their home for so many years.
Larue spoke several times to Pete and still got no reply. The whiskey fumes In his brain befuddled him. He knotted his fists into balls. He became slowly angry, angriness that made him want to reach over and shake the imperturbable Nevers.
"Whazza matter, Pete? You sore at me about something? Aw, snap out of it. I'm even going to pay you that ten bucks I owe you soon." Larue giggled idiotically.
The train clattered on at increased speed and the hubbub of the passengers behind rose and fell.
"Now Pete." said Larue, "you're not going to high-hat your old friend, are you? That's no way to treat me."
He reached out and touched Nevers' shoulder.
The motorman turned at that, and for the first time spoke, his eyes full on the laborer's face.
"Get out," he said between closed teeth.
At that, Larue saw red. Without thinking, he aimed a lusty punch in the direction of the engineer's body. He let fly, and as he connected, felt the shock of impact through the back of his hand and up his arm, but Nevers wasn't hurt. With his free hand, the motorman shoved Larue away viciously. The foundry worker crashed heavily into the opposite side of the aisle. Nevers' compartment door slammed and there was the click of a lock. Larue sputtered and pulled himself upward, helped by one of the old-time passengers and a bored reporter who saw in the antics of the drunk some release from the monotony of this final el ride.
"I'm all right," insisted Larue, shaking off his helpers. "Lemme alone." He shook his head. He felt bewildered and dazed by ins fall and the liquor. Before him loomed the unreassuring visage of Chief of Police Frost. Larue waved his hand and insisted again: "I'm all right. Lemme alone."
The train docilely began to slow for the yard. The last station was ahead. One of the reporters tried knocking at the motorman's compartment, pounding with his fist and then shaking his head dourly and slapping the pad and pencil he had in his hand back into his pocket.
"He's a devil," said Larue. "Don't go near him, fella."
The reporter smirked and beaded back along the aisle. The train came to a shuddering stop and Larue found himself carried along with the outpouring passengers. He noted a foreman of the elevated line and old Conductor Philpot standing near the front of the train. Walking down the steps was a feat. When he reached the bottom, everything became increasingly hazy. He headed for the nearest bar and threw himself into the wooden seat of a little cubicle. Beers added to the Scotch made him sleepy, and his last act consisted of waving a five-dollar bill at the disapproving barkeep.
Unaccountable time later, Jack woke up on a bench across the street from the tavern. He felt gingerly of the throbbing lump on the back of his head and his t motions flamed up in anger at Pete. His shoulder was sore, too, where he had been shoved into the side of the el car by the motorman.
Larue got laboriously to his feet. He staggered uncertainly back across the street and headed into the tavern again, but as he crossed the threshold, the barkeep spotted him and started lumbering forward with a meaningful jerk of the head.
