All I did was throw a carton up to a shelf—a sort of basketball toss that missed. The box hit the sink, tipped off, and, incredibly, broke an aged lead water pipe. To my horror, water began gushing over the floor. I tried to stuff a towel into the pipe. No good. My beautiful shop! All the beautiful books! Ruin!
Still holding the towel to the pipe with one hand, I dialed my father’s telephone number. He was a sound man concerning the mechanical world.
“Do you have a broom?” he said. “All right, cut it in two and make a plug for the pipe. Then call your landlord.”
I went to work frantically. All the time water was pouring across the floor. Finally I managed to whittle a temporary plug. Then I phoned the landlord.
He inquired of my business success.
“Please,” I said. “The pipe to the sink has broken. My store will be ruined. Where is the shut-off?”
“I don’t know where the shut-off is,” he said. “You are responsible. Read your lease. Goodbye.”
I turned to the City Water Department next. By the time I explained to them what had happened and they examined their charts and discovered where the cut-offs might be located, I was standing in an inch of water.
Someone would be over, I was assured. But not right away. In a few hours perhaps. All the men were out on emergencies. However, I could try to find the cut-offs myself. They were outside near the street lamp about a foot from the curb.
I stuck my head out the door. It was about ten degrees above zero, and the ground along the curbing was covered with at least five inches of ice and snow. What to do? And all the time, more water was bubbling over the broom handle and splashing onto the floor.