He lit his pipe and sat up in bed smoking until a knock at the front door at half-past eleven sent him off to sleep again. Mrs. Scutts, who was sitting downstairs, opened it and admitted her husband.
“All serene?” he inquired. “What are you looking like that for? What's up?”
He sat quivering with alarm and rage as she told him, and then, mounting the stairs with a heavy tread, stood gazing in helpless fury at the slumbering form of Mr. James Flynn.
“Get out o' my bed,” he said at last, in a choking voice.
“What, Bill!” said Mr. Flynn, opening his eyes.
“Get out o' my bed,” repeated the other. “You've made a nice mess of it between you. It's a fine thing if a man can't go out for 'arf a pint without coming home and finding all the riffraff of the neighbourhood in 'is bed.”
“'Ow's the pore back, Bill?” inquired Mr. Flynn, with tenderness.
Mr. Scutts gurgled at him. “Outside!” he said as soon as he could get his breath.
“Bill,” said the voice of Mrs. Scutts, outside the door.
“Halloa,” growled her husband.