“Mr. Makimmon,” he began; “you got my place.... There’s none better. I’ve put a lot of work into it. I’ll—I’ll get my things out soon’s I can. If you can give me some time; my wife—”
“I can give you a life,” Gordon replied brusquely. He walked past Alexander Crandall to his wife. She turned her face from him. He said:
“You go back to the Bottom. I’ve fixed Cannon ... this time. Tell your husband he can pay me when it suits; the place is yours.” He swung on his heel and strode away.
IV
The fitful wind had, apparently, driven the warmth, the sun, from the earth. The mountains rose starkly to the slaty sky.
Gordon Makimmon lighted a lamp in the dining room of his dwelling. The table still bore a red, fringed cloth, but was bare of all else save the castor, most of the rings of which were empty. The room had a forlorn appearance, there was dust everywhere; Gordon had pitched the headstall into a corner, where it lay upon a miscellaneous, untidy pile.
“I reckon you want something to eat,” he observed to General Jackson. He proceeded, followed by the dog, to the kitchen. It revealed an appalling disorder: the stove was spotted with grease, grey with settled ashes; a pile of ashes and broken china rose beyond; on the other side coal and wood had been carelessly stored. A table was laden with unwashed dishes, unsavory pots, crusted pans.
Gordon stood in the middle of the floor, a lamp in his hand, surveying the repellent confusion. It had accumulated without attracting his notice; but now, suddenly detached from the aimless procession of the past months, it was palpable to him, unendurable. “It’s not fit for a dog,” he pronounced.