"Well, I'll go see if I can get him out once."
We peeked through the slats of the Venetian blinds as Grant went across
to 14 and knocked on the door. The door opened and after a few seconds
of conversation he stepped inside and disappeared. Grandma rubbed the
burn scars on her arms nervously, skirting around the newest, tender
ones.
It wasn't long before Grant came back, escorting a pale, indignant
Hellwig. An aura of mothballs entered the room with them.
"Fine nap I had," the old man spluttered. "A fine nap, with
those--those hussies in the next room. Those baggages, those tarts,
those--"
"Please," I murmured.
"Those girls were pretty mad," Grant said
"Mad because there was a man in their cabin?"
"Nope--mad because they hadn't found him!"
"Those hussies," Hellwig went on. "How do you do, they acted as if they
didn't know what clothes are for, running around with hardly a stitch
on."
"He's a old prude," Grandma whispered.
"You mean to say, when Grant went in there to get you, they didn't have
much on?" I asked fiercely.
"No, they were dressed then. But earlier, when they first came, they
took showers and then they just ran around with nothing on. Then
finally they began getting dressed. But they stuck a quarter in the
radio and how do you do, they danced all around while they got dressed.
It was the most disgusting thing I ever saw."
"But how did you know what they were doing? I thought the door between
the rooms was locked," I interposed.
A dull red began to creep up from Hellwig's wrinkled neck to his face,
surrounding his faded eyes. "Well," he said, "I--I just glanced through
the keyhole to see what was going on."