“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?”

“Gwan back in the bath-tub, Charley.”

“Say, d’ yuh think you can run me?  Get out of this, or I’ll throw you out.  Got house way I want it.”

Bill Wrenn, the cattleman, rushed at him, smacked him with the broom, drove him back into the tub, and waited.  He laughed.  It was all a good joke; his friend Charley and he were playing a little game.  Charley also laughed and splashed some more.  Then he wept and said that the water was cold, and that he was now deserted by his only friend.

“Oh, shut up,” remarked Bill Wrenn, and swept the bathroom floor.

Charley stopped swashing about to sneer: 

“Li’l ministering angel, ain’t you?  You think you’re awful good, don’t you?  Come up here and bother me.  When I ain’t well.  Salvation Army.  You——.  Aw, lemme ’lone, will you?” Bill Wrenn kept on sweeping.  “Get out, you——.”

There was enough energy in Charley’s voice to indicate that he was getting sober.  Bill Wrenn soused him under once more, so thoroughly that his own cuffs were reduced to a state of flabbiness.  He dragged Charley out, helped him dry himself, and drove him to bed.