It is seven-thirty of an August evening. The windows in
the living-room of the gray house are wide open, patiently
exchanging the tainted inner atmosphere of liquor and
smoke for the fresh drowsiness of the late hot dusk. There
are dyingflower scents upon the air, so thin, so fragile,
as to hint already of a summer laid away in time. But
August is still proclaimed relentlessly by a thousand
crickets around the side-porch, and by one who has broken
into the house and concealed himself confidently behind a
bookcase, from time to time shrieking of his cleverness
and his indomitable will.