Bang door. She popp away.
When dishes was entirely washed off I retire upwards to my room with my mind full of vacation. This department where I slept was neat room for Japanese, but too small for Swedes. What should I do with this enclosed Thursday? Sleep, perhapsly, and enjoy a few nightmares by daylight? This seem too inappropriate. What then should I?
I set on bed opposite bursted portrait of Hon. Geo. W. Washington while watching drop-drip of rain falling into wash-bowl. Pretty soonly I uprose and lock door.
How should I be amused? Then, of suddenly, I think it. Music! That are considered most fashionable indoor exercise for jaded fatigue. So I open up trunk and got out following implements:
- 1 Japanese banjo of whang-string variety.
- 5 complete cigars of Philippine factory.
- 1 music entitled “Jolly Widow Wedding March.”
- 1 umbrella of American nationality.
I tie umbrella to bed, so keep off drop-drip. I arrange myself under this water-shed, light cigar in teeth, put banjo in knuckles, retain music on knee. Then I commence beginning. Japanese banjos, Mr. Editor, refuse to wear American tunes unless forced to do so; but by practical continuation of pick-pick on strings I can become quite Mozart. I spent 2½ hours at this musical sympathy, filling small room with more sounds than it could contain and almost becoming tuneful, when—O startle!—knock-knock rapped at door.
“Come inwards!” I holla.
“Can’t do, and be pretty quick about it!” glub basso voice of Hon. Mr. Hoke, making rattles from locked knob. “Please unlock door so I can drag you out.”
I oblige politely by unlatching that locker. Hon. Hoke rosh inwards and stand sky-scraping over me like bulldogs scaring mice.
“Why you mean?” he thonder. “Why you so reptilian in depravity when kind Mrs. Wife are so angel-handed? Are she not entirely generous?”