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?"
"Gwan back in the bath-tub, Charley.
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