Not willing to be moonstruck, even on the back of his head, he arose
and went to the window to draw the curtain. There was a sort of
curtainette at the top, opaque and immovable, serving simply to reduce
the height of the window. At the sides there were gauzy draperies, too
fancifully arranged to be rashly moved and too thin to serve the
purpose of a curtain even against moonlight. He tried to close the
inside shutters, but they clung to their boxes, refusing to stir
without an order from the carpenter. At the risk of catching a cold or
a fall, he opened the window and endeavored to bring the outside
blinds together. One fold hung fast to the wall, the other he contrived
to unloose, but the hook to hold it closed was wanting, and when he
tried to fasten it open again the catch refused to catch, so he was
compelled to shut the window and leave the swinging blind at the mercy
of the wind. He then improvised a screen from a high-backed chair and
an extra blanket, and again betook himself to bed. Stepping on a tack
that had been left over when the floor matting was laid provoked
certain exclamations calculated to exorcise the demon--or should I say
alarm the angel?--of decorative art, and he was soon wrapped in the
slumber of the just, undisturbed by esthetic visions.

[Illustration: WILL'S MASTERPIECE.]

After a time he became dimly conscious of a sense of alarm. At first,
scarcely roused to understand the fear or its cause, he soon recognized
a noise that filled his soul with terror--the stealthy sound of a
midnight assassin; a faint rasping, intermittent and cautious, a sawing
or filing the bolt of his door. He made a motion to spring up, upset a
glass of water by his bedside and--frightened the rats from the
particular hole they were trying to gnaw. In their sudden fright they
dropped all pretense of secresy. They called each other aloud by name