One of Jimmie Dale's shoulders was hunched forward, giving a crude and
ill-fitting set to his fashionably tailored, Fifth Avenue coat; he
staggered slightly, and the flap of his collar protruded, while his tie,
pulled out, sprawled over his vest; also his slouch hat, badly crushed
and looking as though it had rolled in the mire of the street, was
tilted forward at an unhappy angle until it was balanced on the bridge
of his nose. Men, women, and children passed him by--for the street was
crowded--paying him not the slightest attention. He lurched in through
the front door of the tenement, swayed up against the hallway
inside--and stood there, still swaying a little.
It was dark here, and the atmosphere was musty and fetid; a murmur
pervaded the place as of voices behind many closed doors, but apart from
that the tenement might have been empty and deserted for all the signs
of life it evidenced. And then the spot where Jimmie Dale had stood was
vacant, and he was along the narrow hallway without a sound, and,
opening a door at the rear, stood peering out. After a moment, he closed
the door again without fastening it; and, back once more toward the
front of the hallway, began to creep silently up the stairs.
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