CHAPTER VII.

THE RAPE OF THE MATTRESS.

That Mr. Grabman slept calmly that night is probable enough, for his gin-
bottle was empty the next morning; and it was with eyes more than usually
heavy that he dozily followed the movements of Beck, who, according to
custom, opened the shutters of the little den adjoining his sitting-room,
brushed his clothes, made his fire, set on the kettle to boil, and laid
his breakfast things, preparatory to his own departure to the duties of
the day. Stretching himself, however, and shaking off slumber, as the
remembrance of the enterprise he had undertaken glanced pleasantly across
him, Grabman sat up in his bed and said, in a voice that, if not maudlin,
was affectionate, and if not affectionate, was maudlin,--

"Beck, you are a good fellow. You have faults, you are human,--humanism
est errare; which means that you some times scorch my muffins. But, take
you all in all, you are a kind creature. Beck, I am going into the
country for some days. I shall leave my key in the hole in the wall,--
you know; take care of it when you come in. You were out late last
night, my poor fellow. Very wrong! Look well to yourself, or who knows?
You may be clutched by that blackguard resurrection-man, No. 7. Well,
well, to think of that Jason's foolhardiness! But he's the worse devil
of the two. Eh! what was I saying? And always give a look into my room
every night before you go to roost. The place swarms with cracksmen, and
one can't be too cautious. Lucky dog, you, to have nothing to be robbed
of!"

Beck winced at that last remark. Grabman did not seem to notice his
confusion, and proceeded, as he put on his stockings: "And, Beck, you are