On second thought I asked her to hand in some toast
--or bread and butter and bloater paste--at the same time. I fed the
fire with judgment, and the copper boiled just as the last blaze died
down. I got a pail and carried the water to the bath, pouring it in
through the opening at the head. The last few pints I dipped into the
pail with a cup. I covered the opening with a towel to keep the steam
and heat in until I was ready. I got the boiling water from the
kitchen into the bucket, covered it with another towel, and stood it
in a handy corner in the bathroom.
I made an opening, turned on the cold water, and commenced to undress.
I hung my clothes on the wall, till morning, for I intended to go
straight from the bath to bed in my pyjamas and to lie there reading.
I turned off the cold water tap to be sure, lifted the towel off, and
put my good right foot in to feel the temperature--into about three
inches of cold water, and that was vanishing.
I'd forgotten to put in the plug.
I'm deaf, you know, and the landlady, hearing the water run, thought I
was flushing out the bath (we were new tenants) and wondered vaguely
why I was so long at it.
I dressed rather hurriedly in my working clothes, went inside, and
spread myself dramatically on the old cane lounge and covered my face
with my oldest hat, to show that it was comic and I took it that way.
But my landlady was so full of sympathy, condolence, and self-reproach
(because she failed to draw my attention to the gurgling) that she let
the coffee and toast burn.
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