"Don't squeal," said the visitor gently with a hiccough; "I see I'm too late or too early, or shomething or other."
He was evidently a gentleman out of his room and evidently drunk. Antony laughed and got half-way out of bed.
"You're in the wrong room, that's clear, and how are you going to get out of it? Can you get up with a lift?"
"Look here"—the young man who was an American and who would have been agreeable-looking if he had not been drunk and hebetated, sat back and leaned comfortably against the door—"roomsh all right, good roomsh, just like mine; don't mind me, old man, go back to bed."
Antony came over and tried to pull him up, but the stranger was immense, as big as himself, and determined and happy. He had made up his mind to pass his night on the floor.
Antony rang his bell in vain, then sighed, himself overcome with sleep. To the young man who barricaded
the door, and who was already beginning to drowse, he said pleasantly—
"Give us your hat, anyway, and take off your coat."
"Now you go back to bed, sir," ordered the other with solemn dignity, "go back to bed, don't mind me. I'm nothing but a little mountain flower," he quoted pathetically. His head fell over, his big body followed it.
Antony took one of his pillows, put it under the fellow's head, and turned in himself, amused by his singularly companioned night.