Mr. Wrenn felt prickly, then
angry at this curiosity, and again demanded:
"Lemme in, I say."
"Tell you it ain't you. I know you!"
Charley Carpenter's pale face leered out. His tousled hair was
stuck to his forehead by perspiration; his eyes were red and
vaguely staring. His clothes were badlv wrinkled. He wore a
collarless shirt with a frilled bosom of virulent pink, its
cuffs grimy and limp.
"It's ol' Wrenn. C'm in. C'm in quick. Collectors always
hanging around. They can't catch me. You bet."
He closed the door and wabbled swiftly down the long drab hall
of the "railroad flat," evidently trying to walk straight. The
reeking stifling main room at the end of the hall was terrible
as Charley's eyes. Flies boomed everywhere. The oak table,
which Charley and his bride had once spent four happy hours in
selecting, was littered with half a dozen empty whisky-flasks,
collars, torn sensational newspapers, dirty plates and
coffee-cups. The cheap brocade cover, which a bride had once
joyed to embroider with red and green roses, was half pulled off
and dragged on the floor amid the cigarette butts, Durham
tobacco, and bacon rinds which covered the green-and-yellow
carpet-rug.
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