No more o' this grub
for mine! And if I was in your place I'd go out to eat. You get a
breath o' fresh air; and a cuppa hot chocolate for a nickel at a drug
store, with a free lunch o' crackers thrown in, 'll do you a sight
more good than the best there is in _this_ dope shop."
Long before Miss Kirk had finished pouring out advice, the eight-cent
lunch of soup, sandwich, and coffee had been slapped down on a dirty
tablecloth by a frantic rabbit of a waitress. The big restaurant was
dim, even at midday, because its only windows gave upon a narrow court
which separated that part of the building from another part of equal
height. It was so dark that perhaps the hard-worked females who
cleaned it might be excused for passing blemishes sunlight would have
thrown into their faces.
One did not exactly _see_ the dirt (except on the cheap, unbleached
"damask" flung crookedly over the black oilcloth nailed onto table
tops); but, like a cowardly ghost that dares not show itself, in some
secret, shuddering way the squalor was able to make its presence felt.
Now and then a black beetle pottered across the oilcloth-covered
floor; and though a black beetle may happen anywhere, it potters only
where it feels at home, otherwise it scurries about in desperate
apology for living.
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