So, having his Bohemian young head somewhat turned by his
first check of twenty dollars, he had promptly celebrated his
return to affluence by as promptly spending a goodly portion of
that wealth. He had bidden a cadaverous animal painter named
Mershon and two equally hungry-eyed Michiganders yclept Albright
to his room with the rakish back wall, where the feast had been a
regal if somewhat subdued one.
And now Trotter looked about the room, thoughtfully, and decided
it was time to act. All record of this past orgy would have to be
wiped out. The window, he knew, was impossible, for already there
had been divers complaints as to the mysterious showers of
eggshell which day by day fell into the area below.
So Trotter laid several newspapers together. On these outspread
newspapers he placed four empty beer bottles, a sardine can, odds
and ends of biscuit and zwieback, a well-scraped wooden butter
tray, and--what had troubled and haunted him most, from the
moment of its purchase in a Sixth Avenue delicatessen store--the
lugubrious and clean-picked carcass of a roast turkey.
It had been a fine turkey, and done to a turn. But all along
Trotter had been wondering just how he was going to get rid of
those telltale bones.
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