Tears welled slowly from his eyes.

His voice quavered when he spoke to them.
Once when the waiter was about to depart with an empty tray, the man drew a coin from his pocket and held it forth.
"Here," said he, quite magnificently, "here's quar'." The waiter kept his hands on his tray.
"I don' want yer money," he said.
The other put forth the coin with tearful insistence.
"Here, damn it," cried he, "tak't! Yer damn goo' f'ler an' I wan' yehs tak't!" "Come, come, now," said the waiter, with the sullen air of a man who is forced into giving advice.

"Put yer mon in yer pocket! Yer loaded an' yehs on'y makes a damn fool of yerself." As the latter passed out of the door the man turned pathetically to the women.
"He don' know I'm damn goo' f'ler," cried he, dismally.
"Never you mind, Pete, dear," said a woman of brilliance and audacity, laying her hand with great affection upon his arm.

"Never you mind, old boy! We'll stay by you, dear!" "Das ri'," cried the man, his face lighting up at the soothing tones of the woman's voice.

"Das ri', I'm damn goo' f'ler an' w'en anyone trea's me ri', I treats zem ri'! Shee!" "Sure!" cried the women.