The head bookkeeper shook his head at Mr. Wrenn’s inquiry: “Charley ain’t here any longer.” “Ain’t _here?_” “No. He got through. He got to boozing pretty bad, and one morning about three weeks ago, when he had a pretty bad hang-over, he told Guilfogle what he thought of him, so of course Guilfogle fired him.” “Oh, that’s too _bad_. Say, you don’t know his address, do you?” “—East a Hundred and Eighteenth…. Well, I’m glad to see you back, Wrenn. Didn’t expect to see you back so soon, but always glad to see you. Going to be with us?” “I ain’t sure,” said Mr. Wrenn, crabbedly, then shook hands warmly with the bookkeeper, to show there was nothing personal in his snippishness. For nearly a hundred blocks Mr. Wrenn scowled at an advertisement of Corn Flakes in the Third Avenue Elevated without really seeing it…. Should he go back to the Souvenir Company at all? Yes. He would. That was the best way to start making friends. But he would “get our friend Guilfogle at recess,” he assured himself, with an out-thrust of the jaw like that of the great Bill Wrenn. He knew Guilfogle’s lead now, and he would show that gentleman that he could play the game. He’d take that lower salary and pretend to be frightened, but when he got the chance— He did not proclaim even to himself what dreadful thing he was going to do, but as he left the Elevated he said over and over, shaking his closed fist inside his coat pocket: “When I get the chance—when I _get_ it—” The flat-building where Charley Carpenter lived was one of hundreds of pressed-brick structures, apparently all turned out of the same mold. 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. Mr. Wrenn felt prickly, then angry at this curiosity, and again demanded: “Lemme in, I say.” “Tell you it ain’t you. I know you!”