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Updated: May 25, 2025
Upon the uprights I nailed inch slats perpendicularly, against which the slabs were placed, each being held in place temporarily until the panel was complete, when other slats retained them. The rafters were manipulated of odd sorts of timber and the roof of second-used corrugated iron, the previous nail holes being stopped with solder.
"One bed is ready for you." "Call that a bed?" sniffed Stacy. "Why, that wouldn't hold a baby. He'd fall through the slats." "Try it. Lie down on it," smiled Lige. Chunky did so, gingerly, then little by little a sheepish smile crept over his countenance. "Why, it does hold me up." "Of course it does." "Say, fellows, this is great. It's softer than any feather bed I ever slept in.
Even in so cursory a survey, I knew that I was taking a decided risk, but it seemed necessary. My room never had more than a half-light, which filtered through shutter slats so slanted that I could see nothing between them save the sky and a few stark sycamore branches. Consequently I lay in comparative darkness while they were etched against the full light of the partly open door.
The young fellow called Greer was whisking on the water, but when Madden opened his eyes, he set the bucket down and returned silently to his work. "There, ye're bether now," grinned Hogan stooping over the wounded man. "That platform caught yez a little love lick in the slats break any of 'em?" Leonard reached across and felt his side. "How came the smack there?" he inquired weakly.
One mattress about four inches thick over squeaking slats, cotton sheets, so nicely calculated to the size of the bed that the slightest move on the part of the sleeper would detach them from their moorings and undo the housemaid's work; two limp, discouraged pillows that had evidently been "banting," and a few towels a foot long with a surface like sand-paper, completed the fittings of the room.
It seemed to be a good deal of trouble to get the slats well painted. "These," said the foreman, putting his hand on the bluish gray blinds, "are just as they come from the mill the factory where they are made. This first coat of paint is put on there. Then our painters paint them whatever color is wanted."
The bank of cloud above the west, corrugated by the wind, seemed not unlike the lowermost slats of a Venetian blind; one might have fancied that a great finger had tilted them up whilst the red, callous, cruel face took a last peep at the frost-bitten city, the frost-bound country Montmartre and its windows, winking and bloodshot; Bercy and its barges; Notre Dame, where icicles, large as carrots, hung from the lips of the gargoyles, and the Seine clipping the cité and flowing to the clean but distant sea.
He stepped in, and the door banged behind him. “This w’y, sir,” said the maid, and Mr Bunker found himself in the little room where this story opened. The moment he was alone he went to the window and peeped cautiously between the slats of the venetian blind. The street was quiet, both cabs had disappeared, and for a minute or two he could see nothing even of Moggridge.
The rocker was a trough about three feet in length with three slats in it and a sieve at the upper end, on which the bucket of earth was thrown. The man worked the rocker with one hand and dipped the water out of the river with a tin-handled dipper.
Sometimes I wonder if it is not we, with our myriad interests, who have strayed from the real things of life. On my road homeward, too, there is a crudely carved Buddha. He is so altogether hideous, they have put him in a cage of wooden slats.
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