THE LIGHT OF THE WORLD By Ernest Hemingway
When he saw us come in the door the bartender looked up and then reached over and put the glass covers on the two free-lunch bowls. “Give me a beer,” I said. He drew it, cut the top off with the spatula and then held the glass in his hand. I put the nickel on the wood and he slid the beer toward me.
“What’s yours?” he said to Tom.
“Beer.”
He drew that beer and cut it off and when he saw the money he pushed the beer across to Tom.
‘What’s the matter?” Tom asked.
The bartender didn’t answer him. He just looked over our heads and said, “What’s yours?” to a man who’d come in.
“Rye,” the man said. The bartender put out the bottle and glass and a glass of water.
Tom reached over and took the glass off the free-lunch bowl. It was a bowl of pickled pig’s feet and there was a wooden thing that worked like a scissors, with two wooden forks at the end to pick them up with.
“No,” said the bartender and put the glass cover back on the bowl.
Tom held the wooden scissors fork in his hand. “Put it back,” said the bartender.
“You know where,” said Tom.
The bartender reached a hand forward under the bar, watching us both. I put fifty cents on the wood and he straightened up.
‘What was yours?” he said.
When he saw us come in the door the bartender looked up and then reached over and put the glass covers on the two free-lunch bowls. “Give me a beer,” I said. He drew it, cut the top off with the spatula and then held the glass in his hand. I put the nickel on the wood and he slid the beer toward me.
“What’s yours?” he said to Tom.
“Beer.”
He drew that beer and cut it off and when he saw the money he pushed the beer across to Tom.
‘What’s the matter?” Tom asked.
The bartender didn’t answer him. He just looked over our heads and said, “What’s yours?” to a man who’d come in.
“Rye,” the man said. The bartender put out the bottle and glass and a glass of water.
Tom reached over and took the glass off the free-lunch bowl. It was a bowl of pickled pig’s feet and there was a wooden thing that worked like a scissors, with two wooden forks at the end to pick them up with.
“No,” said the bartender and put the glass cover back on the bowl.
Tom held the wooden scissors fork in his hand. “Put it back,” said the bartender.
“You know where,” said Tom.
The bartender reached a hand forward under the bar, watching us both. I put fifty cents on the wood and he straightened up.
‘What was yours?” he said.
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