The bed arrived in a
knock-down state and with it a mechanician from _la ville_, who set about
putting it together, meanwhile indulging in many glances expressive not
merely of interest but of amazement and even fear. I suppose the bed had
to be of a special size in order to accommodate the circular millionaire
and being an extraordinary bed required the services of a skilled
artisan--at all events, "dat fat feller's" couch put the Skipper's
altogether in the shade. As I watched the process of construction it
occurred to me that after all here was the last word in luxury--to call
forth from the metropolis not only a special divan but with it a special
slave, the Slave of the Bed.... "Dat fat feller" had one of the prisoners
perform his _corvee_ for him. "Dat fat feller" bought enough at the
canteen twice every day to stock a transatlantic liner for seven voyages,
and never ace with the prisoners. I will mention him again apropos the
Mecca of respectability, the Great White Throne of purity, Three rings
Three--alias Count Bragard, to whom I have long since introduced my
reader.
So we come, willy-nilly, to The Fighting Sheeney.
The Fighting Sheeney arrived carrying the expensive suitcase of a livid,
strangely unpleasant-looking Roumanian gent, who wore a knit sweater of a
strangely ugly red hue, impeccable clothes, and an immaculate velour hat
which must have been worth easily fifty francs.
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