The Rue des Batailles was justifying its name. From my table on the narrow sidewalk before the Café de Liberté I could view three distinct fights alternately, or simultaneously. Two c**k-sparrows contended noisily for possession of a wisp of straw, a girl with unbelievably small feet and incredibly thick ankles addressed a flood of gamin a***e to an oily-haired youth who wore a dirty black-silk muffler in lieu of a collar. At the curb a spade-bearded patron, considerably the worse for vin ordinaire, haggled volubly with an unshaven taxi chauffeur over an item of five francs.
vin ordinaireI had dropped my cigar end into my empty coffee cup, motioned the waiter for my addition and shoved back my chair, when a light but commanding tap fell on my shoulder.
addition“Now for it,” I muttered, f
