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He was a misshapen thing, bulking a black blotch in the night at the entrance of the darkalleyway-like some lurking creature in its lair. He neither stood, nor kneeled, nor sat-nosingle word would describe his posture-he combined all three in a sort of repulsive, formless heap.The Flopper moved. He came out from the alleyway onto the pavement, into the lurid lightsof the Bowery, flopping along knee to toe on one leg, dragging the other leg behind him-and the leg he dragged was limp and wobbled from the knee. One hand sought thepavement to balance himself and aid in locomotion; the other arm, the right, was twistedout from his body in the shape of an inverted V, the palm of his hand, with half curled, contorted fingers, almost touching his chin, as his head sagged at a stiff, set angle into hisright shoulder. Hair straggled from the brim of a nondescript felt hat into his eyes, andcurled, dirty and unshorn, around his ears and the nape of his neck. His face was coveredwith a stubble of four days' growth, his body with rags-a coat; a shirt, the button longsince gone at the neck; and trousers gaping in wide rents at the knees, and torn at theankles where they flapped around miss-mated socks and shoe

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