"Hoboes?" he said vaguely. "Trash?"
Selby exploded in weak, sputtering fury, and, as always, his glasses canted on the high, thin bridge of his nose and waggled in time to each jerk of words.
"It's that hobo, you saw him, Baruch, that pranced in here and threw a fit and a lot of old carpets all over my floor. Armenian or some such thing! Well, they took him to the hospital and this afternoon he hadn't got more sense than to send a message over here."
Mr. Baruch nodded.
"Ah, to Miss Pilgrim, yes? because of her very kind treatment."
Selby caught his glasses as they fell.
"Huh!" he sneered malevolently. "You'd have to be a hobo before you'd get kindness from her. Hard-luck stories is the only kind she believes. 'I'll have to go, Mr. Selby,' she says. And she goes—and here's me hunting and pawing around—"
"Yes," agreed Mr. Baruch; "it is inconvenient. So I will come back tomorrow with my matter, when you shall have more time. Then the poor man, he is worse or better?"
"You don't suppose I been inquiring after him, do you?" squealed
Selby.
"No," replied Mr. Baruch equably, "I do not suppose that, Selby, my friend."