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Updated: July 6, 2025
Just then the gray-flannel door banged open and a hand reached out and jerked the poor little old man inside, and we heard him say, "But I was only blaming the French. I ain't happy over here." And a sharp voice said, "Well, you've said enough. Don't talk any more at all." Then she let him out again, but he did not find me in the corridor.
It'll teach him to keep out of my way." Jim bit his lip, but said nothing. In a few minutes they were on the wharf. A wiry, dark-complexioned lad of perhaps fifteen stood near the steamboat slip. He wore a faded suit of blue serge, a gray-flannel shirt with red necker-chief, and a soft black hat. His olive face and black eyes bespoke the Italian.
The room was squalid and dirty, and bespoke mean and slovenly habits; but it did not bespeak penury and want, it had even an air of filthy comfort of its own, the comfort of the swine in its warm sty. The occupant of the chamber was in keeping with the localities. He was dressed in a gray-flannel gown and short breeches, the stockings wrinkled and distained, the feet in slippers.
The room was squalid and dirty, and bespoke mean and slovenly habits; but it did not bespeak penury and want, it had even an air of filthy comfort of its own, the comfort of the swine in its warm sty. The occupant of the chamber was in keeping with the localities. He was dressed in a gray-flannel gown and short breeches, the stockings wrinkled and distained, the feet in slippers.
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