"And so do _I_ 'want to,'" broke in John, finally,--"I want to get
some sleep.--So 'register' and come to bed.--And lie up on edge, too,
when you _do_ come--'cause this old catafalque-of-a-bed is just about
as narrow as your views of single blessedness! Peace! Not another
word! Pile in! Pile in! I'm three-parts sick, anyhow, and I want
rest!" And very truly he spoke.

It was a bright morning when the slothful John was aroused by a long,
vociferous pounding on the door. He started up in bed to find himself
alone--the victim of his wrathful irony having evidently risen and
fled away while his pitiless tormentor slept--"Doubtless to at once
accomplish that nefarious intent as set forth by his unblushing
confession of last night," mused the miserable John. And he ground his
fingers in the corners of his swollen eyes, and leered grimly in the
glass at the feverish orbs, blood-shotten, blurred and aching.

The pounding on the door continued. John looked at his watch; it was
only 8 o'clock.

"Hi, there!" he called viciously. "What do you mean, anyhow?" he went
on, elevating his voice again; "shaking a man out of bed when he's
just dropping into his first sleep?"

"I mean that you're going to get up; that's what!" replied a firm
female voice. "It's 8 o'clock, and I want to put your room in order;
and I'm not going to wait all day about it, either! Get up and go down
to your breakfast, and let me have the room!" And the clamor at the
door was industriously renewed.

"Say!" called John, querulously, hurrying on his clothes, "Say! you!"