“No, no I’ll not.”
“Bah! Write him; that would be better.”
“Very well. I’ll write him.”
“No. This very moment. Just a few words.”
As they spoke, Manuel observed the room with intense curiosity; it was unbelievably upset and filthy. The furniture comprised—the bed, a commode, an iron washstand, a shelf and two broken chairs. The commode and the shelf were heaped with papers and books whose binding was falling away. On the chairs lay petticoats and dresses. The floor was littered with cigar stubs, scraps of newspaper and pieces of absorbent cotton that had been used in some cure or other. Under the table reposed an iron wash bowl that had been converted into a brasier and was full of ashes and cinders.
When the servant-girl returned with Sandoval’s shirt and outer garments he got up in his drawers and began a search amidst his papers for a cake of soap, finally locating it. He washed himself in the basin of the washstand, which was brimming with dirty water wherein swam wisps of woman’s hair.
“Would you mind throwing out the water?” asked the journalist humbly of the maid.
“Throw it out yourself,” she snarled, leaving the room.
Sandoval went out into the corridor in his drawers, basin in hand, then returned, washed, and began to dress.