"
"You mean the star? Poison, rope or pistol?"
"Whiskey. He tried to drink himself to death. Before old Jones got
onto him he had put down seven dollars' worth of booze, and now we've
got to help wipe out the account. But why complain? It's all in a
day's--"
The cracked bell on the office desk interrupted him, somewhat
peremptorially. Mr. Dillingford's face assumed an expression of
profound dignity. He lowered his voice as he gave vent to the
following:
"That man Jones is the meanest human being God ever let--Yes, sir,
coming, sir!" He started for the open door with surprising alacrity.
"Never mind the hot water," said Barnes, sorry for the little man.
"No use," said Mr. Dillingford dejectedly. "He charges ten cents for
hot water. You've got to have it whether you want it or not. Remember
that you are in the very last stages of New England. The worst
affliction known to the human race. So long. I'll be back in two
shakes of a lamb's--" The remainder of his promise was lost in the
rush of exit.
Barnes surveyed the little bed-chamber. It was just what he had
expected it would be. The walls were covered with a garish paper
selected by one who had an eye but not a taste for colour: bright pink
flowers that looked more or less like chunks of a shattered water
melon spilt promiscuously over a background of pearl grey.
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