“Skeeter Bill” Sarg stopped at the door of his tar-paper and lath shack and looked back at the street. Skeeter was cranelike in his proportions, his long legs were slightly bowed and his skinny hands hung well below his thighs. He was one of those solemn-looking individuals whose faces appear on the verge of either laughter or tears. Just now he seemed undetermined. He rubbed a skinny hand across his chin, spoke softly to himself and went into the house. It was a small shack. A broken mirror hung crookedly from the wall, a broken-top table was littered with dirty dishes. On a bunk, built into a corner of the room, sat a man of undeterminate age. His face was frowsy with gray stubble, his gr…
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