The sidewalk space was trampled earth
roofed with heavy planks for the protection of pedestrian heads, a passage
lighted by electric bulbs widely spaced; midway in this an entrance to
the structure was flanked by a wooden shanty, by day a tool house, after
working hours a shelter for the night watchman. This boasted one glazed
window dull with orange light.
Approaching with due precaution, Lanyard peered in. The light came from a
single electric bulb and a potbellied sheet-iron stove, glowing red. Near
by, in a chair tipped against the wall, sat the watchman, corncob pipe
in hand, head drooping, eyes closed, mouth ajar. A snore of the first
magnitude seemed to vibrate the very walls. On the floor beside the chair
stood a two-quart tin pail full of arid emptiness.
Dismissing further consideration of the watchman as a factor, satisfied
that the entire neighbourhood as well was sound asleep, Lanyard darted up
the plank walk that led into the building, then paused to get his bearings.
Effluvia of mortar and damp lumber saluted him in an uncanny place whose
darkness was slightly qualified by a faint refracted glow from the low
canopy of cloud and by equally dim shafts of diffused street light.
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