“Now we’ll take a cold bath, heh? and get cleaned up and sobered up. Then we’ll talk about a job, heh?”
“Aw, don’t want a bath. Say, I feel better now. Let’s go out and have a drink. Gimme that flask. Where j’ yuh put it?”
Mr. Wrenn went to the bathroom, turned on the cold-water tap, returned, and undressed Charley, who struggled and laughed and let his whole inert weight rest against Mr. Wrenn’s shoulder. Though normally Charley could have beaten three Mr. Wrenns, he was run into the bath-room and poked into the tub.
Instantly he began to splash, throwing up water in handfuls, singing. The water poured over the side of the tub. Mr. Wrenn tried to hold him still, but the wet sleek shoulders slipped through his hand like a wet platter. Wholesomely vexed, he turned off the water and slammed the bathroom door.
In the bedroom he found an unwrinkled winter-weight suit and one clean shirt. In the living-room he hung up his coat, covering it with a newspaper, pulled the broom from under the table, and prepared to sweep.
The disorder was so great that he made one of the inevitable discoveries of every housekeeper, and admitted to himself that he “didn’t know where to begin.” He stumblingly lugged a heavy pile of dishes from the center-table to the kitchen, shook and beat and folded the table-cover, stuck the chairs atop the table, and began to sweep.
At the door a shining wet naked figure stood, bellowing:
“Hey! What d’ yuh think you’re doing? Cut it out.”
“Just sweeping, Charley,” from Mr. Wrenn, and an uninterrupted “Tuff, tuff, tuff” from the broom.
“Cut it out, I said. Whose house is this?”