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This brake-beaming and riding the rods isn't as soft a snap as it used to seem when I was a kid." "Soft? Y'look like a second-hand garbage-can!" "Thanks. Where's your resident swell?" "Quarters. Hit up the pace work been goin' some." McGraw swept his fat arm around in an explanatory gesture. "Laid down a'ready." "All right. I'm on the job. But I've got to get some sleep soon.
Creeping through the apartment-house cellar, and out past the door of the snoring and still undisturbed janitor, he crouched for a waiting moment or two behind an overloaded garbage-can, in the area. Hearing nothing, he staggered up the narrow stairs to the level of the sidewalk, wet and ragged and disheveled, blackened and soiled and begrimed. The street seemed deserted.
Each day was the same as the last, almost to the final detail. Sometimes Tibby would be naughty at breakfast, sometimes at lunch; while Rover, the spaniel, a great devotee of the garbage-can, would occasionally be sick at mid-day instead of after the evening meal.
But she was strictly watched, was never allowed outside so that all the happy garbage-can moments occurred while these receptacles of joy were indoors. One night in March, however, as they were set out a-row for the early scavenger, the Royal Analostan saw her chance, slipped out of the door, and was lost to view.
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