catapult. She is handicapped by having long hair, which can be used as a
convenient handle. Evidently aware of this natural disadvantage, she
clutches it herself tightly in one hand, and punches with the other. He
opens the door again, and cleverly uses her as a battering-ram against
the wall of those without. You can hear the dull crash as her head
enters among them, and scatters them. When the victory is complete, he
comes back and resumes his seat on the bed. There is no bitterness about
him; he has forgotten the whole incident.

"I like the morning," he says, "don't you?"

"Some mornings," you agree, "are all right; others are not so peaceful."

He takes no notice of your exception; a far-away look steals over his
somewhat ethereal face.

"I should like to die in the morning," he says; "everything is so
beautiful then."

"Well," you answer, "perhaps you will, if your father ever invites an
irritable man to come and sleep here, and doesn't warn him beforehand."

He descends from his contemplative mood, and becomes himself again.

"It's jolly in the garden," he suggests; "you wouldn't like to get up and
have a game of cricket, would you?"

It was not the idea with which you went to bed, but now, as things have
turned out, it seems as good a plan as lying there hopelessly awake; and
you agree.