listened to in years and it could only happen to you. It couldn't, he mused aloud, chuckling, happen to anybody else in the world.
The Mexican girl entered, bearing a tray laden with glasses, bottles, and a bowl of ice.
Try a little Prussic acid, Jack suggested. Tequila or moonshine? Both are equally venomous.
Ambrose accepted a substantial quantity of tequila and under its warming influence he grew more mellow as he continued, at Jack's urgent request, to relate his fabulous experiences.
Jack interrupted him occasionally with a howl or a guffaw.
A milkwagon! he cried. Good Lord, nobody but you. . . . He was choked with mirth.
But after Ambrose had related the episode of his encounter with Griesheimer, Jack became more grave. He continued to listen to the end of the story and smiled once or twice at his friend's account of his amazing departure from Imperia Starling's villa, but when the playwright had concluded, the invalid exclaimed: Ambrose, you're a God damned fool!
Ambrose regarded Jack Story with astonishment.
What do you mean? he demanded.
A cock-eyed simpleton! Jack elaborated.
