He flung down his crushing helmet, drew off his sodden boots, and put his benumbed toes against the warming stove.
He meant to keep awake till Patty came back. But he nodded stupidly. When, as it seemed, he flung up his head for the last long nod, his eyes found broad daylight. The stove was cold, and he was chilled again.
He heard the sounds of breakfast-getting on the floor below. Some one was shoveling up coal from the bin in the hall closet.
He glanced at his own clothes. His hands were grimed. His red flannel shirt was foul. He fell back from the mirror at the sight of his reflection. He looked a negro, with only his eyeballs white.
Aching with fatigue, he stripped to the skin and put on clean underclothes. He cracked the water in the pitcher and filled the bowl with lumps of ice. When he had soused his face and hands, the bowl was full of ink and his face was not half clean.
He went to the door and, with jaws dripping darkly, howled to his black man, Cuff, for water.
The answer came up the stairs:
“Cistern done froze. Pump at de corner don’t pump. Man who sells de bottles of water ain’t come round—he bottles all pop, most like. I’ll fotch you what we got in de kittle.”
The hot water helped, but he blackened three towels before he could see his own skin.
He put on a fresh shirt and stock and his best suit—for Patty’s sake—and went down to breakfast.