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.

About the same moment the clock in the office downstairs struck nine.

Vandover let his feet drop to the floor and sat on the edge of the bed, looking vaguely about him.