The woman told us that Barber was in, but she thought he might be
asleep. He slept a lot.
"I don't know how he lives," she said. "He pays us scarce anything. We
can't keep him much longer."
He was fast asleep, lying back in a chair with his mouth half open,
wrapped in a shabby overcoat. He looked very mean; and when he awoke it
was only one long wail on his hard luck. He couldn't get any work.
People had a prejudice against him; they looked at him askance. He had a
great desire for sleep--couldn't somehow keep awake.
"If I could tell you the dreams I have!" he cried fretfully. "Silliest
rotten stuff. I try to tell 'em to the woman here or her husband
sometimes, but they won't listen. Shouldn't be surprised if they think
I'm a bit off. They say I'm always talking to myself. I'm sure I'm
not.--I wish I could get out of here. Can't you get me a job?" he asked,
turning to Mr. G.M.
"Well, Gus, I'll see. I'll do my best."
"Lummy!" exclaimed Barber excitedly, "you ought to see the things I
dream. I can't think where the bloomin' pictures come from. And yet I've
seen it all before. I know all those faces. They are not all white. Some
are brown like Egyptians, and some are quite black. I've seen them
somewhere. Those long terraces and statues and fountains and marble
courts, and the blue sky and the sun, and those dancing girls with the
nails of their hands and feet stained red, and the boy in whose hair I
wipe my fingers, and the slave I struck dead last night--"
His eyes were delirious, terrible to see.
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