Read Online The Wayward Bus by John Steinbeck, Gary Scharnhorst - Free Book Online Page B

woman’s voice said sharply, “Well, I think you could knock!” And a man replied, “I’m sorry, ma’am. The only other way was to go out the window.”
    Another man’s voice with a brittle singsong of authority said, “Always a good idea to knock, my friend. Hurt your foot?”
    â€œYes.”
    The door at the end of the counter opened and a small man came out into the lunchroom. He was dressed in a double-breasted suit; his shirt was of that light brown color worn by traveling men and known as a thousand-miler because it does not show dirt. His suit was a neutral pepper-and-salt for the same reason, and he wore a knitted dark green tie. His face was sharp, like a puppy’s face, and his eyes were bright and questioning, like a puppy’s eyes. A small, carefully trimmed mustache rode his upper lip like a caterpillar, and when he talked it seemed to hump its back. His teeth were white and even except for the two front uppers, and these were glittering gold. He had a brushed look about him, as though he had cleaned the lint from his suit with his hairbrush; and his shirt had the strained appearance that comes from washing the collar in the hand basin and patting it flat on the dresser top to dry. There was a kind of shy confidence in his manner and a wincing quality in his face, as though he protected himself from insult with studied techniques.
    â€œMorning, folks,” he said. “I just wondered where you all slept. And I’ll bet you sat up all night.”
    â€œWell, we did,” Alice said sourly.
    â€œIt’s all right,” said Juan. “We’ll get to bed early tonight.”
    â€œGet the bus fixed? Think we’ll make it in this rain?”
    â€œOh, sure,” said Juan.
    The man limped around the end of the counter and sat painfully down at one of the little tables. Norma brought a glass of water and a handful of silver wrapped in a paper napkin.
    â€œEggs?”
    â€œFried, with their eyes open, crisp bacon, and buttered toast. Buttered—get it? Hardest thing in the world is to get buttered toast. Now you butter that toast, plenty of butter, and let it melt in so there’s no yellow lumps showing and you’ll get yourself a nice tip.” He lifted his foot shod in a perforated and decorated brown oxford and looked at it and grunted with pain.
    â€œSprain your ankle?” Juan asked.
    The door at the end of the counter opened and a medium-sized man came out. He looked like Truman 1 and like the vice-presidents of companies and like certified public accountants. His glasses were squared off at the corners. His suit was gray and correct, and there was a little gray in his face too. He was a businessman, dressed like one, looked like one. In his lapel buttonhole there was a lodge pin so tiny that from four feet away you couldn’t see what it was at all. His vest was unbuttoned one notch at the bottom. Indeed, this bottom button was not intended to be buttoned. A fine gold watch and key chain crossed this vest and ducked in and out of a buttonhole on the way.
    He said, “Mrs. Pritchard will have scrambled eggs, moist if they’re fresh, toast and marmalade. And Miss Pritchard only wants orange juice and coffee. I’ll have Grape-Nuts and cream, eggs turned over and well done—don’t let the yolk be running—dry toast and Boston coffee—that’s half milk. You can bring it all in on a tray.”
    Alice looked up with fury. “You better come out here,” she said. “We haven’t got tray service.”
    Mr. Pritchard looked at her coldly. “We got held up here,” he said. “I’ve already lost one day of my vacation. It isn’t my fault that the bus broke down. Now the least you can do is to bring that breakfast in. My wife isn’t feeling so good. I’m not used to sitting on a stool and Mrs. Pritchard isn’t either.”
    Alice lowered her head like an