Explore "Spontaneous Combustion" by Arthur B. Reeve on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Kennedy and I had risen early, for we were hustling to get off for a weekend at Atlantic City. Kennedy was tugging at the straps of his grip and remonstrating with it under his breath, when the door opened and a messenger-boy stuck his head in.
"Does Mr. Kennedy live here? " he asked.