“But my good man,” he gasped out at last through the keyhole, as he shivered in the dark, “it’s all a mistake: I’m not the man.”
“Now, are you a-going to stash that ere gammon, or am I to come through the door?—that’s what I wants to know,” growled the voice.
“Good heavens! what a position,” gasped Mr Smith. “My good man,” he cried again, “I’m not mad at all.”
“Oh, no, of course not; nobody never said you was,” said the voice. “It’s all right; open the door; it’s only me, Grouser, yer know.”
But Mr Smith didn’t know Grouser; neither did he wish to; for he wanted a quiet night’s rest, and to go off by the first train; but he resolved to try another appeal.
“M-m-m-m-my good man, will you go away, please?”
Bump! came a heavy body against the door, making the lock chatter, and the inner partition vibrate.
“Go away, please,” gasped Mr Smith; “or I’ll call the landlord.”
Bump! came the noise, and then the gruff voice, “Now, you’d best open, my tulip.”
“Landlord!” screamed Mr Smith.