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The Ex-Policeman’s Story

by William Russell



It was an old house in Bayard Street. Yes, a mighty old house—wooden, and gable-end to the street. And so dilapidated! Dear me! The crows, who were once supposed to have a mortgage on it, had foreclosed time out of mind; and the rats bought it at sheriff’s auction.

It was a blustering, bullying night in November that found me sitting in the front room, second floor, of that old house. Through the keen northeaster, and the every-now-and-then storms of sleet, I had come hither on a lark—one of my larks. The variety I indulge in consists in going into all sorts of out-of-the-way places, in all kinds of out-of-sorts weather, without any sort of an umbrella—nothing but an immense top­-coat, and no end to Hessian boots. I do this to see life.

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