Part 1 (2/2)

But to-day all his being was in revolt, bitterly, hopelesslyGenius

The warehouse--i defiance at the sea-sweet atmosphere of the lower city--occupied a walled-in arch of the Brooklyn Bridge, fronting on Frankfort Street, in that part of Town still known to elder inhabitants as ”the Swah traffic; to the right, on rising ground, were haunts of roaring type-h a sudden dip and down a long decline, a world of sober-sided warehouses, degenerating into slums, circumscribed by sleepy South Street; all, this afternoon, waruorous in the lazy breeze of a sunny April Saturday

The counting-rooround-floor with talls and a ceiling ofInto this constricted space were huddled two ih counter, and the s clerk, with an iron safe, a Reton typewriter, a copy-press, sundry chairs and spittoons, a s columns of dusty letter-files The -panes, encrusted with perennial deposits of Atmosphere, were less transparent than translucent, and so little the latter that electric bulbs burned all day long whenever the skies were overcast Also, the ere fixed and set against the outer air--inable to any form of assault less impulsive than a stone cast by an irresponsible hand A door, set craftily in the inable, afforded both ventilation and access to an aisle which led tortuously between bales of hides to doors opening upon a waist-high stage, where trucks backed up to receive and to deliver

Immured in this retreat, P Sybarite was very --alone with his job (which at present nothing pressed) with Giant Despair and its interlocutor Ennui, and with that blatant, brutish, implacable Smell of Smells

To all of these, abruptly and with cere clerk, introduced hi a visorless cap of soiled linen, an apron of striped ticking, pencils behind both angular red ears, and a s sh in receipt of a se than P Sybarite (who earned fifteen dollars per week) George squandered fifteen cents on newspapers every Sunday ht in the illuminated ”funny sheets”

In one hand he held an envelope

Draping hiarded P

Sybarite with an indulgent and coish head at hi that his fellow-employee was in the throes of a witticishtened his thin-lipped, sensitive e; and checked to enjoy a rude giggle

At this particularP Sybarite with suspicion But beyond taking the pen fro at all

The shi+pping clerk presently controlled his mirth sufficiently to per cryptic exclamation:

”O you Perceval!”

P Sybarite turned pale

”You little rascal!” continued George, brandishi+ng the envelope

”You've been cunning, you have; but I've found you out at last

_Per_-ce-val!”

Over the cheeks of P Sybarite crept a delicate tint of pink His eyes wavered and fell He looked, and was, acutely unhappy

”You're a sly one, you are,” George gloated--”always signin' your name 'P Sybarite' and pretendin' your maiden monaker was 'Peter'! But noe know you! Take off them whiskers--Perceval!”

A really wise mind-reader would have called a policeman, then and there; for mayhem was the least of the cri his, slip down from the tall stool, and approach Mr

Bross with an outstretched hand

”If that letter's for ive it here, please”

”Special d'liv'ry--just coh, out of easy reach, while he read in exultant accents the traitorous address: ”'Perceval Sybarite, Esquire, Care of Messrs

Whigham and Wimper'! O you Perceval--Esquire!”

”Givehis voice