bedstead-end

Updated: May 10, 2025

Hunger seasoned the mess; and I was sitting on the bedstead-end enjoying it, when the police-soldier appeared on the threshold, calling me by name. “You must leave—instantly.” “I am ready,” I said, starting up. “Have you a rug?” “No.” I hurried out into the dark passage.

William Duthie - A Tramp's Wallet: stored by an English goldsmith during his wanderings in Germany and France