It was filled with the smells of steamy
washing and fried fish. Languid with the heat, Mr. Wrenn
crawled up an infinity of iron steps and knocked three times at
Charley's door. No answer. He crawled down again and sought
out the janitress, who stopped watching an ice-wagon in the
street to say:
"I guess you'll be finding him asleep up there, sir. He do be
lying there drunk most of the day. His wife's left him. The
landlord's give him notice to quit, end of August. Warm day,
sir. Be you a bill-collector? Mostly, it's bill-collectors
that--"
"Yes, it is hot."
Superior in manner, but deeply dejected, Mr. Wrenn rang the
down-stairs bell long enough to wake Charley, pantingly got
himself up the interminable stairs, and kicked the door till
Charley's voice quavered inside:
"Who zhat?"
"It's me, Charley. Wrenn."
"You're in Yurp. Can't fool me. G' 'way from there."
Three other doors on the same landing were now partly open and
blocked with the heads of frowsy inquisitive women. The steamy
smell was thicker in the darkness.
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