open lattice, I fell sound asleep.

It must have been an hour after that I awoke with a chill (as was
natural), and was stretching out a hand to pull the window close,
but suddenly sat down again and fell to watching instead.

The window look'd down, at the height of ten feet or so, upon a
bowling-green at the back of the "Crown" Tavern (kept by John
Davenant, in the Corn Market), and across it to a rambling wing of
the same inn; the fourth side--that to my left--being but an old
wall, with a broad sycamore growing against it. 'Twas already
twilight; and in the dark'ning house, over the green, was now one
casement brightly lit, the curtains undrawn, and within a company of
noisy drinkers round a table. They were gaming, as was easily told
by their clicking of the dice and frequent oaths: and anon the
bellow of some tipsy chorus would come across. 'Twas one of these
catches, I dare say, that woke me: only just now my eyes were bent,
not toward the singers, but on the still lawn between us.

The sycamore, I have hinted, was a broad tree, and must, in summer,
have borne a goodly load of leaves: but now, in November, these were
strewn thick over the green, and nothing left but stiff, naked
boughs. Beneath it lay a crack'd bowl or two on the rank turf, and
against the trunk a garden bench rested, I suppose for the
convenience of the players. On this a man was now seated.

He was reading in a little book; and this first jogged my curiosity:
for 'twas unnatural a man should read print at this dim hour, or, if
he had a mind to try, should choose a cold bowling-green for his
purpose. Yet he seemed to study his volume very attentively, but