pawnshops, gun-stores, bird-stores, and
the shops of Chinese cobblers. Around the corner on Kearney Street was a
concert hall, a dive, to which the admission was free. Near by was the
old Plaza.

Underneath the hotel on the ground floor were two saloons, a barber
shop, and a broom manufactory. The lodgers themselves were for the most
part "transients," sailors lounging about shore between two voyages,
Swedes and Danes, farmhands, grape-pickers, and cow-punchers from
distant parts of the state, a few lost women, and Japanese cooks and
second-boys remaining there while they advertised for positions.

Vandover sank to the grade of these people at once with that fatal
adaptability to environment which he had permitted himself to foster
throughout his entire life, and which had led him to be contented in
almost any circumstances. It was as if the brute in him were forever
seeking a lower level, wallowing itself lower and lower into the filth
and into the mire, content to be foul, content to be prone, to be inert
and supine.

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. 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. His face, ordinarily very pale,
was oily from sleep and red upon one side from long contact with the
pillow, the marks of the creases still showing upon his cheek. His