It might be chancy, opening that door; so he peered through a narrow
crack at first, listening intently. He could hear nothing and no one
was in sight. He pushed the latch--string through its hole, then
opened the door enough to emit his slender shape.
A moment later, ten feet from the closed door, he stood at ease,
scanning the log cabin as one who, passing by, had been attracted by
its quaint architecture. Then glancing in both directions to be
again sure that he was unobserved, he walked away from his new home.
He did not slink furtively. He took the middle of the street and
there was a bit of swagger to his gait. He felt rather set up about
this adventure. He reached what might have been called the lot's
civic centre and cast a patronizing eye along the ends of the big
stages and the long, low dressing--room building across from them.
Before the open door of the warehouse he paused to watch a truck
being loaded with handsome furniture--a drawing room was evidently
to be set on one of the stages. Rare rugs and beautiful chairs and
tables were carefully brought out. He had rather a superintending
air as he watched this process.
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