And sweet, too, was the fetid
atmosphere of the subway after the clean, bracing air of Pelham,
sweet was the smell of garlic belonging to a mustache that sat beside
me, and sweet were the buttery fingers of a small child who kept
clawing at me while their owner demanded of the whole car if I was a
"weal mavy sailor boy?" I didn't look it, and I didn't feel it, but I
had forty-three hours of freedom ahead of me, so what did I care?
All went well with me until I essayed the six flight climb-up to the
cave of these cliff-dwelling people, when I found that the one-storied
existence I had been leading in the Pelham bungalows had completely
unfitted me for mountain climbing. As I toiled upward I wondered dimly
how these people ever managed to keep so fat after having mounted to
such a great distance for so long a time. Somehow they had done it,
not only maintained their already acquired fat but added greatly
thereto. There would be no refreshing cup to quaff upon arriving, only
water, or at best milk. This I knew and the knowledge added pounds to
my already heavy feet.
"My, what a dirty sailor you are, to be sure," they said to me from
the depth of their plump complacency.
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