The alley was dark. In the court that ran behind the hotel were several large, battered cans that shone dully against the black wall. Debris littered the ground. Looking furtively at the closed doors the man made his way to one of the cans.
He lifted the cover cautiously and thrust his arm into its depths. For several minutes he remained with his arm lost inside the refuse can.
“He’s found something,” whispered Moisse.
The man straightened. In his hand he held an object on which sparks seemed to race up and down like blue insects.
He raised his find to his face and then thrust it into his pocket and resumed his shuffle down the alley.
“To think,” mused Moisse, “of a man eating out of a garbage can. Either he is inordinately hungry or careless to a point of ... of....”
He searched for a word that refused to appear and he followed slowly after the man. In the dim light of a side street the man paused and took out his booty. It was evidently the back of a fowl.
Standing still the man thrust it into his mouth, gnawing and tearing at its bones. After he had eaten for several minutes he held it up to the light and started picking at shreds of meat with his fingers. These he licked off his hand.
The meal was at length finished. The man threw the gleaned bones away, blew his nose and walked on.
Through the dark tumbled streets Moisse followed. The shuffling figure fascinated him. He noted the gradually increasing degradation of the neighborhood, the hovels that seemed like torn, blackened rags, the broken streets piled with refuse and mud.