He's one of that kind, you know. Insignificant? Why, in full daylight you almost had to look twice to see him—and then you'd be guessin' whether it was a lath that had sprouted whiskers, or whiskers that was tryin' to bud a man! Them and the thick, gold-rimmed glasses sure did give him a comic, top-heavy look.
Course, we get all kinds in our buildin'; but when the lady voice culturist on the top floor sublets her studio for the summer to this freak I thought we'd gone from bad to worse. And she even has the nerve to leave the key with me, sayin' Mr. Ham would call for it in the course of a week or so.
He sidles up to the desk and proceeds to make some throaty noises.
We'd enjoyed about ten days of peace too, with no bloodcurdlin' sounds floatin' down the light shaft, and I was hopin' maybe the subtenant had renigged, when one mornin' the front office door opens easy, and in slips this face herbage exhibit. It's no scattered, hillside crop, either, but a full blown Vandyke. When he'd got through growin' the alfalfa, though, his pep seemed to give out, and the rest of him was as wispy as a schoolgirl.
He sidles up to the desk, where I have my heels elevated restful, and proceeds to make some throaty noises behind his hand. I'm just readin' how Tesreau pulled out of a bad hole in the seventh with two on bases; but I breaks away long enough to glance over the top of the paper.
"Go on, shoot it," says I.
"I—I'm very sorry," says he, "but—but I am Mr. Ham."
"Never mind apologizin'," says I. "Maybe it ain't all your fault. After the key, ain't you?"