Old Grannis's occupation was gone. That morning the bookselling firm
where he had bought his pamphlets had taken his little binding apparatus
from him to use as a model. The transaction had been concluded. Old
Grannis had received his check. It was large enough, to be sure,
but when all was over, he returned to his room and sat there sad and
unoccupied, looking at the pattern in the carpet and counting the heads
of the tacks in the zinc guard that was fastened to the wall behind his
little stove. By and by he heard Miss Baker moving about. It was five
o'clock, the time when she was accustomed to make her cup of tea and
"keep company" with him on her side of the partition. Old Grannis drew
up his chair to the wall near where he knew she was sitting. The minutes
passed; side by side, and separated by only a couple of inches of board,
the two old people sat there together, while the afternoon grew darker.
But for Old Grannis all was different that evening. There was nothing
for him to do. His hands lay idly in his lap. His table, with its pile
of pamphlets, was in a far corner of the room, and, from time to time,
stirred with an uncertain trouble, he turned his head and looked at it
sadly, reflecting that he would never use it again.
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