almost proud figure of the bear stoop with quiet dignity, the musical
fingers close with a singular delicacy upon the moist indescribable
eighth-of-an-inch of tobacco.

I did not know that this was a Delectable Mountain....

The clean-shaven man (who appeared to have been completely won over by
his smoke), and the fluffy gnome, who had completed the arrangement of my
_paillasse_, now entered into conversation with myself and B.; the
clean-shaven one seating himself in Harree's stead, the gnome declining
(on the grounds that the bed was already sufficiently loaded) to occupy
the place left vacant by the tassel's exit, and leaning against the drab,
sweating, poisonous wall. He managed, however, to call our attention to
the shelf at B.'s head which he himself had constructed, and promised me
a similar luxury _toute de suite_. He was a Russian, and had a wife and
_gosse_ in Paris. "My name is Monsieur Au-guste, at your service"--and
his gentle pale eyes sparkled. The clean-shaven talked distinct and
absolutely perfect English. His name was Fritz. He was a Norwegian, a
stoker on a ship. "You mustn't mind that feller that wanted you to sweep.
He's crazy. They call him John the Baigneur. He used to be the bathman.
Now he's _Maitre de Chambre_. They wanted me to take it--I said, 'F----
it, I don't want it.' Let him have it. That's no kind of a job, everyone
complaining and on top of you morning till night. 'Let them that wants
the job take it' I said. That crazy Dutchman's been here for two years.
They told him to get out and he wouldn't, he was too fond of the booze"
(I jumped at the slang) "and the girls. They took it away from John and
give it to that little Ree-shar feller, that doctor. That was a swell job
he had, _baigneur_, too. All the bloody liquor you can drink and a girl
every time you want one. He ain't never had a girl in his life, that
Ree-shar feller." His laughter was hard, clear, cynical. "That Pompom,