"What
have you done?"
"Pilgrim Atlantic is taking me aboard," Oliver said.
"My God . . . Is the money that good?" George's eyes gleamed.
"Money's good. It gets better if you keep your mouth shut and work
sixty hours a week. I haven't actually started. I just came from the
interview, but it's a pretty sure thing. I'll buy." Sam set two pints
in front of them.
"Maybe it won't be too bad," George said. "Lot of women in there."
"All very well for you, George. I am a man with responsibilities."
"I see them going in. They look like they're going to jail. I want to
save them, carry them away on a white horse." George shook his head
sadly. "I can't afford a horse."
"There aren't any white horses left," Oliver said. "_Silver_ was it."
He raised his glass to the impossibility of it all. "How's the
painting?"
"I'm taking a break from painting, working on a sculpture. I'm doing a
golden cockroach." George's face changed when he talked about his
projects. His big smile and round eyes were upstaged by his prominent
forehead and the bones in his cheeks. His mouth went from boyish to
disciplined. "Intelligent," he said. "Indomitable. King of the
cockroaches.
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