“Putting a new elevator in at the office,” he said, discarding the nominative noun, “and the boss has turned out his whiskers.”
“You don’t mean it!” commented Mrs. Hopkins.
“Mr. Whipples,” continued John, “wore his new spring suit down to-day. I liked it fine. It’s a gray with———” He stopped, suddenly stricken by a need that made itself known to him. “I believe I’ll walk down to the corner and get a five-cent cigar,” he concluded.
John Hopkins took his hat and picked his way down the musty halls and stairs of the flat-house.
The evening air was mild, and the streets shrill with the careless cries of children playing games controlled by mysterious rhythms and phrases. Their elders held the doorways and steps with leisurely pipe and gossip. Paradoxically, the fire-escapes supported lovers in couples who made no attempt to fly the mounting conflagration they were there to fan.
The corner cigar store aimed at by John Hopkins was kept by a man named Freshmayer, who looked upon the earth as a sterile promontory.
Hopkins, unknown in the store, entered and called genially for his “bunch of spinach, car-fare grade.” This imputation deepened the pessimism of Freshmayer; but he set out a brand that came perilously near to filling the order. Hopkins bit off the roots of his purchase, and lighted up at the swinging gas
[14]
