As he was passing Heise's
harness shop a sudden deluge of rain overtook him and he was obliged to
dodge into the vestibule for shelter. He, who loved to be warm, to
sleep and to be well fed, was icy cold, was exhausted and footsore
from tramping the city. He could look forward to nothing better than a
badly-cooked supper at the coffee-joint--hot meat on a cold plate,
half done suet pudding, muddy coffee, and bad bread, and he was cold,
miserably cold, and wet to the bone. All at once a sudden rage against
Trina took possession of him. It was her fault. She knew it was going
to rain, and she had not let him have a nickel for car fare--she who had
five thousand dollars. She let him walk the streets in the cold and in
the rain. "Miser," he growled behind his mustache. "Miser, nasty little
old miser. You're worse than old Zerkow, always nagging about money,
money, and you got five thousand dollars. You got more, an' you live
in that stinking hole of a room, and you won't drink any decent beer. I
ain't going to stand it much longer. She knew it was going to rain. She
KNEW it. Didn't I TELL her? And she drives me out of my own home in the
rain, for me to get money for her; more money, and she takes it.
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