It was Saturday morning about a quarter of nine. The wet season had
begun early that year. Though this was but the middle of September, the
rain had fallen steadily since the previous Wednesday. Its steady
murmur, prolonged and soothing like the purring of a great cat, filled
Vandover's room with a pleasant sound. The air of the room was thick and
foul, heavy with the odour of cooking, onions, and stale bedding. It was
very warm; there was no ventilation. Vandover lay upon the bed half
awake, dozing under the thick coarse blankets and soiled counterpane.
With the exception of his shoes and coat he wore all his clothes. He was
glad to be warm, to be stupefied by the heat of the bedding and the bad
air of the room.
In the next room a Portuguese fruit vender, very drunk, was fighting
with the tin pitcher and pasteboard bowl on his wash-stand, trying to
wet his head, swearing and making a hideous clatter. At length he tipped
them over upon the floor and gave the pitcher a great kick. The noise
roused Vandover; he sat up in bed, stretching, rubbing his hands over
his face.
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