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Updated: May 22, 2025
"That I am," said Sandy; "and next year, too, if the money holds out." "Golly gosh!" said Ricks, incredulously. "Well, I got to be hikin' back. The next is my entry. I'll look you up after while. So-long!" He shambled off, and Sandy watched his broad-checked back until it was lost in the crowd. That Ricks should have turned up at that critical moment seemed a wilful prank on the part of fate.
Beyond was "the world," passive, to be acted upon; the parquet, ranged seats of young men with the flash-stamp on them from their thick noses to the broad-checked trousers; the dress-circle, young girls with their eyes and brains full-facing their attendant sweethearts, and a side-giggle for the stage; crude faces in the gallery, tamed faces lower down; gray and red and black and tow-colored heads full of myriad teeming thoughts of business, work, pleasure, outside of this: treble and tenor notes wandering through them, dying almost ere born; touching what soul behind the dress and brain-work? and touching it how?
Mr. Ricketty is composed of angles. From his high silk hat worn into dulness, through his black frock coat worn into brightness, along each leg of his broad-checked trowsers worn into rustiness, down into his flat, multi-patched boots, he is a long series of unrelieved angles.
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