Page:Manhattan Transfer (John Dos Passos, 1925).djvu/156

 II. Longlegged Jack of the Isthmus

HARLAND stopped typing and looked up at the ceiling. The tips of his fingers were sore. The office smelled stalely of paste and manifests and men in shirt-sleeves. Through the open window he could see a piece of the dun wall of an airshaft and a man with a green eyeshade staring vacantly out of a window. The towheaded officeboy set a note on the corner of his desk: Mr. Pollock will see