"I guess you know who I am, don't you? Heard of me perhaps, too--eh?
Clancy of headquarters is my name!" He laughed menacingly, unpleasantly.
Smarlinghue's clothes were threadbare and ill-fitting; his coat was a
size too small for him, and from the short sleeves protruded blatantly
the frayed and soiled wristbands of his shirt. He twined his hands
together anxiously, and retreated further back into the room.
"I haven't done anything, honest to God, I haven't!" he whined.
"Ain't, eh?" The other laughed again. "No, of course not! Nobody ever
did! But now I'm here--just dropped in socially, you know--I'll have a
look around."
He began to move about the room. Smarlinghue, still twining his hands in
a helpless, frightened way, still circling his lips nervously with the
tip of his tongue, followed the other's movements in miserable
apprehension with his eyes.
Clancy, as he had introduced himself, shot up the roller shade, peered
out into the courtyard, yanked the shade down again with a callous jerk
that almost tore it from its fastenings, and strode over toward the
easel, contemptuously kicking a chair that happened to be in his way
over onto the floor.
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