" He
laughed sneeringly. "The hell it does!" mocked he. "I
understand perfectly. I want my clothes."
"No one is coming," said Susan. "There's no one to come."
He was looking round the comfortable little room that was the
talk of the whole tenement and was stirring wives and fast
women alike to "do a little fixing up." Said he:
"A nice little nest you've made for him. You always were good
at that."
"I've made it for myself," said she. "I never bring men here."
"I want my clothes," cried he. "I haven't sunk that low, you----!"
The word he used did not greatly disturb Susan. The shell she
had formed over herself could ward off brutal contacts of
languages no less than of the other kinds. It did, however,
shock her a little to hear Rod Spenser use a word so crude.
"Give me my clothes," he ordered, waving his fists in a fierce,
feeble gesture.
"They were torn all to pieces. I threw them away. I'll get
you some more in the morning."
He dropped back again, a scowl upon his face. "I've got no
money--not a damn cent. I did half a day's work on the docks
and made enough to quiet me last night." He raised himself.
"I can work again. Give me my clothes!"
"They're gone," said Susan. "They were completely used up."
This brought back apparently anything but dim memory of what
his plight had been. "How'd I happen to get so clean?"
"Clara and I washed you off a little.
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