The True Life of Max Bobber:
Mr. Bobber had not caused the scene but everyone blamed him for it. He was an innocuous man with light, moist brown eyes and an indecisive smile. He carried a brief case under his arm when he came into the restaurant; sliding it under the table, he looked around for an empty hook upon which to hang his hat, and, not finding one, sat down nervously with the hat on his lap. It was a heavy, warm day; a revolving fan riffled the steaming air over Mr. Bobber’s bald skull.
Perhaps he was more self-conscious than usual that day; he couldn’t help thinking everyone was looking at him as he fussed with the menu and the napkin; certainly the waiter stared rudely, sharply, so that Mr. Bobber, who was a crank about his food and could never quite decide what he wanted to order, blurted out: “Beef stew, please.” Then he sat miserably, trying to summon up courage to recall the waiter, who, disappearing behind the swinging doors, appeared again like the miraculous Thurston and dumped the mess before him. Mr. Bobber tried to scrape the gravy off the meat, to cut away the nauseating fat from the slippery beef. His eyes blinked ceaselessly behind his glasses; his hat slipped to his knees.
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