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He climbed up the stairs. There was a fearful row going on. The place
was crammed with members of various nationalities, drinking and arguing
amid clouds of tobacco smoke. They seemed all to be at loggerheads with
one another and on the verge of breaking out into violence, the south
wind having been particularly objectionable all day long. A good deal
of filthy and profane language was being used--it was worse than those
hot places he had known in Africa. That pink-faced old drunkard known
as Charlie was the only person who made any signs of recognizing him.
He half rose from his chair with a genial: "Hello, Bishop--" and
instantly collapsed again. Mr. Muhlen was there; he bowed rather
distantly. A tremulous pale-faced youngster invited him pressingly to a
drink, and just as the bishop was on the verge of accepting with a view
to getting the victim out of that den of vice, the lad suddenly
remarked: "Excuse me, won't you?" and tottered out of the door. They
were too far gone to be spoken to with any prospects of success.


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