“It was terrible, and it held him: a stupid flat face into which panic must come each instant—and did not.” Fiction by Dashiell Hammett.
Ten days later, he found a place in a steamship agency. A month later, he was looking for work again. He had sat dreaming over his desk one afternoon and his employer, a little fat man with a fat sneering mouth, had asked him if he was afraid of work. Had asked him—a little fat man who would have buried his face in his arms at the first sign of danger.
He submitted his application and a doctor surveyed his body. Days passed, and he was told he had failed the physical examination—a matter of defective kidneys. In the office of a fire commissioner that same afternoon, Earl Parish created a diversion. An inch and a half of cut newspaper was brandished before the commissioner’s eyes. The commissioner was called an old fool. Presently Earl Parish was hustled to the sidewalk., where he found someone to listen to his story.
Earl Parish turned around and followed the old man. Other pedestrians passed and repassed them. Earl Parish kept half a block behind his man, and as he walked he took his three finger-worn clippings out of their envelope and put them loose in his pocket, where they would be readily available if his request for “a dime or so” needed documentary bolstering.
A boiling hiss, the beat of hotness on his face jerked his eyes open. In front of him nimble red blades of fire poked up at the ceiling. Seeing the clipping truly, he saw its significance and he saw other things: he saw himself with a clearness that mottled his face beyond power of smoke and fire. He stood up on the landing and faced upstairs with the bit of paper crumpled in his fist.
He found no one in the room with him, nor in the other rooms that made up the house’s top story. He swayed as he walked back to the first room. His head was hollow and buoyant, and he breathed in choking gulps. He staggered toward the front window.Earl Parish dropped down on hands and knees and peered under the chair there. A cinnamon kitten stopped rubbing paws on nose to sneeze again. Earl Parish laughed hoarsely as he scooped the kitten out of its retreat and stuffed it into a coat pocket.
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