"
The porter turned round and started. All his faith in mankind
was destroyed by the shock of finding the fellow still there.
"Nothing, I told you. No one needed."
"Look here; can I see somebody in authority or not?"
The porter was privately esteemed a wit at his motherin-law's.
Waddling away, he answered, "Or not."
Mr. Wrenn drooped out of the corridor. He had planned to see the
Tate Gallery, but now he hadn't the courage to face the
difficulties of enjoying pictures. He zig-zagged home, mourning:
"What's the use. And I'll be hung if I'll try any other
offices, either. The icy mitt, that's what they hand you here.
Some day I'll go down to the docks and try to ship there.
Prob'ly. Gee! I feel rotten!"
Out of all this fog of unfriendliness appeared the waitress at
the St. Brasten Cocoa House; first, as a human being to whom he
could talk, second, as a woman. She was ignorant and vulgar;
she misused English cruelly; she wore greasy cotton garments,
planted her large feet on the floor with firm clumsiness, and
always laughed at the wrong cue in his diffident jests.
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