Sunday night again as I pen these words. Seven days! Seven æons! My watch tells me it is twelve o'clock. As I pause for a moment a sound floats through my open window. It is not any night bird's trilling, for I know my singers of the dark, every one. Now it comes plainer. A sort of whistle, I should say, though it is a kind I have not heard for a long time. Its impression is fuzzy, as though done carelessly. I have heard boys whistle so, between their teeth. What is happening without my door, I wonder? No one bent on mischief, for such do not advertise their approach. The whistling has stopped. I declare I hear feet, and they draw nearer. I am not one bit alarmed. I think I prove this by continuing my task as the unknown footsteps steadily come closer. They stop. I look up. Arms crossed on my window-sill, head bobbing in greeting and goat tuft wagging, stands the Satyr. Before I can speak he loosens this tipsy stave:
"Say, Mr. Rabbit, you're look'n' mighty slim!"
"Yes, by gosh! ben a-spit'n' up phlim!"
CHAPTER NINETEEN
IN WHICH THE SATYR AND THE NARRATOR BECOME VERY DRUNK AND THE LATTER IS LIFTED TO EARTH AGAIN
"Come in here, Jeff Angel!" I cried, joy at sight of him mounting, and brightening my face with a smile of welcome. I dropped my pen and beckoned eagerly.
His grin broadened as he accepted my invitation forthwith, through the window. I meant that he should enter by the door, naturally, but instead he gave a leap, and came squirming and wriggling in like a great caterpillar. I was up and had him by the hand as soon as his feet touched the floor.
"Where's Lessie? How is she? How does she feel toward me? Why didn't you stop when I called you the other night? Talk, man! Hurry!"
The Satyr's grin seemed fixed.
"Whur 'n hell yo' ben?" he drawled, disengaging my clasp and sliding around the table to a seat on a box.