It beat upon the door and trickled
underneath in a thin rivulet to a shallow puddle, formed where the floor
was sunken. A dank warmth and the smell of wet wood heating to the
blazing point pervaded the room and mingled with the coarse aroma of
cheap, warmed-over coffee.
"Sandy!"
"Hunh?"
"Did anybody get married last night?" The leash of forgetfulness was
snapping, strand by strand. Troubled remembrance peered out from behind
the philosophic calm in Ford's eyes.
"Unh-hunh." Sandy turned a leaf and at the same time flicked the ashes
from his cigarette with a mechanical finger movement. "You did." He
looked briefly up from the page. "That's why you licked the preacher,"
he assisted, and went back to his reading.
A subdued rumble of mid-autumn thunder jarred sullenly overhead. Ford
ceased caressing the purple half-moon which inclosed his left eye and
began moodily straightening his tie.
"Now what'n hell did I do that for?" he inquired complainingly.
"Search _me_," mumbled Sandy over his book. He read half a page
farther. "Do what for?" he asked, with belated attention.
Ford swore and went over and lifted the coffeepot from the stove, shook
it, looked in, and made a grimace of disgust as the steam smote him in
the face.
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