Iown there were two mutes, and they were always together. Early every m they would e out from the house where they lived and walk arm in arm dowreet to work. The two friends were very different. The one who always steered the way was an obese and dreamy Greek. In the summer he would e out wearing a yellreen polo shirt stuffed sloppily into his trousers in front and hanging loose behind. When it was colder he wore over this a shapeless gray sweater.
His face was round and oily, with half-closed eyelids and lips that curved in a geupid smile. The other mute was tall. His eyes had a quick, intelligent expression. He was always immaculate and very soberly dressed.
Every m the two friends walked silently together until they reached the main street of the town. Thehey came to a certain fruit and dy store they paused for a moment on the sidewalk outside. The Greek, Spiros Antonapoulos, worked for his cousin, who owhis fruit store. His job was to make dies and sweets, uncrate the fruits, and to keep the place . The thin mute, John Singer, nearly alut his hand on his friends arm and looked for a sed into his face before leaving him. Then after this good-bye Singer crossed the street and walked on aloo the jewelry store where he worked as a silverware engraver.
Ie afternoon the friends would meet again. Singer came back to the fruit store and waited until Antonapoulos was ready to go home. The Greek would be lazily unpag a case of peaches or melons, or perhaps looking at the funny paper i behind the store where he cooked. Before their departure Antonapoulos always opened a paper sack he kept hidden during the day on one of the kit shelves. Inside were stored various bits of food he had collected—a piece of fruit, samples of dy, or the butt-end of a liverwurst. Usually before leaving Antonapoulos waddled gently to the glassed case in the front of the store where some meats and cheeses were kept. He glided open the
back of the case and his fat hand groped lovingly for some particular dainty inside which he had wanted. Sometimes his cousin who owhe place did not see him. But if he noticed he stared at his cousin with a warning in his tight, pale face.
Sadly Antonapoulos would shuffle the morsel from one er of the case to the other. During these times Siood very straight with his hands in his pockets and looked in another dire. He did not like to watch this little se betweewo Greeks. For, excepting drinking and a certain solitary secret pleasure, Antonapoulos loved to eat more than anything else in the world.
In the dusk the two mutes walked slowly home together. At home Singer was always talking to Antonapoulos. His hands shaped the words in a swift series of designs. His face was eager and his gray-green eyes sparkled brightly. With his thin, strong hands he told Antonapoulos all that had happened during the day.
Antonapoulos sat back lazily and looked at Singer. It was seldom that he ever moved his hands to speak at all— and then it was to say that he wao eat or to sleep or to drink.
These three things he always said with the same vague, fumbling signs. At night, if he were not too drunk, he would kneel down before his bed and pray awhile. Then his plump hands shaped the words Holy Jesus, od, or Darling Mary. These were the only words Antonapoulos ever said.
Singer never knew just how much his friend uood of all the things he told him. But it did not matter.
They shared the upstairs o