A moldly moldering molish voice, suggesting putrefying tracts and orifices, answers with a cob-webbish patience so far beyond despair as to be indescribable: “La soupe.” 

 “Well, the soup, I just gave it to you, Monsieur Savy.” 

 “Must have a little something else. My money is chez le directeur. Please take my money which is chez le directeur and give me anything else.” 

 “All right, the next time I come to see you to-day I’ll bring you a salad, a nice salad, Monsieur.” 

 “Thank you, Monsieur,” the voice moldered. 

 Klang!!—and says the turnkey-creature to somebody else; while turning the lock of Monsieur Savy’s door; taking pains to raise his voice so that Monsieur Savy will not miss a single word through the slit over Monsieur Savy’s whang-klang: 

 “That old fool! Always asks for things. When supposest thou will he realize that he’s never going to get anything?” 

 Grubbing at my door. Whang! 

 The faces stood in the doorway, looking me down. The expression of the faces identically turnkeyish, i.e., stupidly gloating, ponderously and imperturbably tickled. Look who’s here, who let that in? 

 The right body collapsed sufficiently to deposit a bowl just inside. 

 I smiled and said: “Good morning, sirs. The can stinks.” 

 They did not smile and said: “Naturally.” I smiled and said: “Please give me a pencil. I want to pass the time.” They did not smile and said: “Directly.” 

 I smiled and said: “I want some water, if you please.” 

 They shut the door, saying “Later.” 

 Klang and footsteps. 

 I contemplate the bowl which contemplates me. A glaze of greenish grease seals the mystery of its content, I induce two fingers to penetrate the seal. They bring me up a flat sliver of cabbage and a large, hard, thoughtful, solemn, uncooked bean. To pour the water off (it is warmish and sticky) without committing a nuisance is to lift the cover off Ça Pue. I did. 

 Thus leaving beans and cabbage-slivers. Which I ate hurryingly, fearing a ventral misgiving. 

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