23
T
he
snow of Christmas was flung aside by the sweepers that clanged along the street car tracks, and the badly clad men with clattering shovels flung it into trucks and hauled it to the river.
Tregan tried with a sincerity that was beyond doubt to find a normal footing for himself. His work dealt less at this time with incoming celebrities and business banquets than with dirty little stories of confessing chorus girls and mentally crippled men charged with what were politely referred to as “statutory offenses”.
But he forced himself to work over the stories carefully, expending a soundness of technique as would a tile-setter remodelling his own bathroom.
There seemed nothing else in his life but the paper-littered office. He never went to his home except to sleep. It seemed drab n
