Vandover obeyed. He wore no vest, and
the old cutaway coat, fastened by the single remaining button, exposed
his shirt to view, abominably filthy, bulging at the waist like a
blouse. The "blue pants," held up by a strap, were all foul with mud and
grease and paint, and there hung about him a certain odour, that
peculiar smell of poverty and of degradation, the smell of stale clothes
and of unwashed bodies.
"Well?" said Geary abruptly.
Vandover put the tips of his fingers to his lips and rolled his eyes
about the room, avoiding Geary's glance; then he dropped them to the
floor again, looking at the pattern in the carpet.
"Well," repeated Geary, irritated, "you know I haven't got all the time
in the world." All at once Vandover began to cry, very softly, snuffling
with his nose, his chin twitching, the tears running through his thin,
sparse beard.
"Ah, get on to yourself!" shouted Geary, now thoroughly disgusted. "Quit
that! Be a man, will you? Stop that! do you hear?" Vandover obeyed,
catching his breath and slowly wiping his eyes with the side of his
hand.
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