and ear. He started and struck at it, and shook it from his fingers, and stood trembling.
There was no slum or dive in New York City where Barney would have been afraid—for there was no human being, from the policeman on the beat to the gangster in the cellar, whom he would not have known how to wheedle with his frank eyes and his innocent smile. But the woods were new to him. His feet, used to pavements, were nervous in the yielding mud that seemed treacherous and slimy. Everything about him was unstable, disordered, bewilderingly agitated; he had a feeling that it would all be squashy to the touch; and he apprehended that it concealed snakes and rat-like animals that might scuttle over his feet. He had been assured that there were no bears, or such, “nearer than the Central Park menagerie.”
Babbing and the men in the auto had torn the band from his hat and stained the light felt with spots of oil, artistically. They had pried the heel off one of his shoes and split the
