Page:The Whisper on the Stair by Lyon Mearson (1924).djvu/155



was awakened by the clatter of plates and eating utensils. The smell of crisp bacon and fried eggs came pleasantly to his nostrils. It was broad daylight, and the sun was streaming into the dingy apartment through the window opposite the couch on which Val lay.

At the table sat Ignace Teck, making a hearty and evidently enjoyable meal, managing his utensils with an awkward cleverness that bespoke many years of doing the same thing. He did it surprisingly well, and Val could see that he ate with almost as little trouble as a man in possession of all his limbs. He held his fork pressed between his two wrists, and was remarkably limber and clever at it.

Val wondered how he went about dressing. One could hold a fork or a knife between his wrists, but how did one button a shirt? That was something that needed fingers and thumbs. How did one put in a collar button—sometimes hard enough for normal persons, even? Val decided that he probably had assistance.

He also decided that, in addition to being abominably thirsty, he was hungry; he knew there was little chance of getting food here. Yet the fine tang of the sizzling bacon was tantalizing to a man who was bound hand Rh