resting place for the night: under a pillow.

He was healthy and he was tired. Two minutes after his head touched
the pillow he was sound asleep, losing consciousness even as he fought
to stay awake in order that he might continue to vex himself with the
extraordinary behavior and statement of Putnam Jones.

He was aroused shortly after midnight by shouts, apparently just
outside his window. A man was calling in a loud voice from the road
below; an instant later he heard a tremendous pounding on the tavern
door.

Springing out of bed, he rushed to the window. There were horses in
front of the house,--several of them,--and men on foot moving like
shadows among them. A shuffling of feet came up to his open window;
the intervening roof shut off his view of the porch and all that was
transpiring. His eyes, accustomed to darkness, made out at least five
horses in the now unlighted area before the tavern.

Turning from the window, he unlocked and opened the door into the
hall. Some one was clattering down the narrow staircase. The bolts on
the front door shot back with resounding force, and there came the
hoarse jumble of excited voices as men crowded through the entrance.
Putnam Jones's voice rose above the clamour.

"Keep quiet! Do you want to wake everybody on the place?" he was
saying angrily. "What's up? This is a fine time o' night to be--Good
Lord! What's the matter with him?"

"Telephone for a doctor, Put,--damn' quick! This one's still alive.