put my good right foot in to feel the temperature--into about three
inches of cold water, and that was vanishing.

I'd forgotten to put in the plug.

I'm deaf, you know, and the landlady, hearing the water run, thought I
was flushing out the bath (we were new tenants) and wondered vaguely
why I was so long at it.

I dressed rather hurriedly in my working clothes, went inside, and
spread myself dramatically on the old cane lounge and covered my face
with my oldest hat, to show that it was comic and I took it that way.
But my landlady was so full of sympathy, condolence, and self-reproach
(because she failed to draw my attention to the gurgling) that she let
the coffee and toast burn.

I went up and lay on my bed, and was so tired and misty and far away
that I went to sleep without undressing, or even washing my face and
hands.

How many, in this life, forget the plug!

And how many, ah! how many, who passed through, and are passing
through Skull Terrace, commenced life as confidently, carefree, and
clear headed, and with such easily exercised, careful, intelligent,
practised, and methodical attention to details as I did the bath
business arrangements--and forgot to put in the plug.

And many because they were handicapped physically.