A warm, foetid rush of air from under the
grating at their feet tickled their nostrils and mocked their hunger
with a mockery past endurance. Arranged on the window-sill was a
miscellaneous collection of very smeary plates and dishes, containing
an even more miscellaneous collection of food. A half-consumed ham,
with more than a mere suspicion of dirt on its yellowish-white fat;
some concoction in a bowl that might have been brawn made from some
peculiarly liverish pig, or--from one of the many homeless mongrels
that roam the streets at night; a pile of noxious-looking mussels,
side by side with a glistening mass of particularly yellow whelks; a
round of what purported to be beef--very fat and very underdone; some
black shiny sausages, and a score or so of luridly red polonies. A
similar assortment was to be seen on the counter behind which lolled
an anaemic girl, in a dirty cotton blouse, and a much soiled sky-blue
skirt.
A month ago such an exhibition would have been an offence in the
fastidious eyes of Messrs. Kelson and Curtis; but now it was
otherwise. Their stomachs would have refused nothing short of garbage.
"Matt!" Curtis's hands had left off clutching at his belt and were now
hanging by his side; the fingers twitching to and fro in a manner that
fascinated Kelson. "Matt! Is there any logic in our starving?"
"None, excepting that we haven't a cent between us!" Kelson rejoined.
"I know that," Curtis went on slowly, "but--I mean--why should we
starve when all this grub is within two inches of us! It's
unreasonable--it's intolerable.
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