The object of this scrutiny had a pale countenance with a carefully
clipped mustache, baggy eyes and a blue-shaved heavy jaw. An
indefinable suggestion of haste sat on a progress not unduly hurried.
But as he caught sight of Lemuel Doret he walked more and more slowly,
returning his fixed attention. When the two men were opposite each
other, only a few feet apart, he almost stopped. For a moment their
sharpened visions met, parried, and then the stranger moved on. He made
a few steps, hesitated, then directly returned.
"Come inside," he said in a slightly hoarse voice.
"It suits me here," Doret replied.
The other regarded him steadily. "I've made no mistake," he asserted.
"I could almost say how long you were up for, and a few other little
things too. I don't know what you're doing in this dump, but here we
both are."
He waited for nothing more, ascending quickly to the hall. The two made
their way into the improvised barber shop.
"You've got me wrong," Doret still insisted.
"Who is it, Lem?" Bella demanded at the door.
As she spoke an expression of geniality overspread her face, daubed
with paint and discontent.
"Why, I'll tell you--I'm June Bowman."
"That don't mean anything to us," Lemuel continued. "The best thing you
can do is keep right on going."
"Not that Fourth Ward stew?" Bella asked eagerly.
He nodded.
"Lem's kind of died on his feet," she explained in a palpable excuse of
her husband's ignorance; "he don't read the papers nor nothing.
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