A DYING MAN 
there were people on all the seats, on the box and standing 
on the steps — nearly turned over on going round corners. 
The wheels sank up to their axles in mud. 
We pulled up at the hotel door, where another crowd 
of loafers had assembled. I was literally dragged into the 
hotel —for I had become somewhat reluctant, first on 
seeing the appearance of the place, then on being met by 
waves of a nauseating odour which suggested the non¬ 
existence of sanitary arrangements and worse. 
“Come in, come in! ... . wait here!” shouted they 
in a most excited manner, when I expressed a wish to 
inspect the palatial quarters which they had been good 
enough to reserve for me. 
“ Wait a moment! ” shouted the landlord, a lumbering, 
disjointed, murderous-looking creature, whose violent 
gestures and waving of hands in front of my face were 
somewhat irritating. He dashed into a room on the 
ground floor — and we outside could hear an altercation 
between the loud-voiced proprietor and the plaintive 
moans of a half-dying man. 
A moment later the half-dying man, skeleton-like, 
with livid eyes, a complexion the colour of a lemon gone 
bad, and quivering bare legs, was literally dragged out of 
the bed and roughly thrown out of the door. 
“ Here is your room! ” cried the landlord triumphantly 
to me, as he flung out of that apartment some cheap 
canvas bags, clothes, which from the beginning had been 
innocent of washing and pressing, and the socks, shoes, 
and day shirt of the guest who had been ejected. 
The odour alone, as I peeped into the room, was 
enough to stifle any one with the sense of scent even less 
delicate than my own. As for the vacant bed — any 
pariah dog of any other country would have been offended 
to be offered such filthy accommodation. 
In Brazil, as elsewhere, it does not do to lose one’s 
calm. I also wished to avoid an unpleasant quarrel, as 
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