Once more George looked round, racking his brain and trying to remember that one day the porter would die.
Then he turned to the basin and pushed back his cuffs.
“I think I’ll wash my hands,” he announced. “Can you get me a towel?”
“An’ then you’re wrong,” said the porter. “There ain’t no water.”
George could have broken his neck.
Instead, he turned to the window, trying to keep his head and wondering vaguely what constituted ‘justifiable homicide.’
Suddenly the idea flashed, and he swung on his heel.
“Who’s that?” he said sharply, and listened.
The porter started.
“Ooze wot?” he said.