down, at this moment, upon the steps and platform, and struck up, with one accord, “We won’t go home till morning.”  In the midst of this, a part broke off and took up, discordantly, the refrain, “Polly, put the kettle on, we’ll all have tea;” others complicated the confusion further with, “Cruel, cruel Polly Hopkins, treat me so,—­oh, treat me so!” till they fell, at last, into an indistinguishable jumble and clamor, from which extricated themselves now and again and prevailed, the choruses of “Upidee,” and “Bum-bum-bye,” with an occasional drum-beat of emphasis given upon the door.

“Don’t go back there, James,” Dakie Thayne heard a voice from the retiring party say as they passed him; “it’s disgraceful!”

“The house won’t hold Sin Saxon after this,” said another.  “They were out in the upper hall, half a dozen of them, just now, ringing their bells and calling for Mr. Biscombe.”

“The poor man don’t know who to side with.  He don’t want to lose the whole west wing.  After all, there must be young people in the house, and if it weren’t one thing it would be another.  It’s only a few fidgets that complain.  They’ll hush up and go off presently, and the whole thing will be a joke over the breakfast-table to-morrow morning, after everybody’s had a little sleep.”

The singing died partially away just then, and some growling, less noisy, but more in earnest, began.

“They don’t mean to let us in!  I say, this is getting rather rough!”

“It’s only to smash a pane of glass above the bolt and let ourselves in.  Why shouldn’t we?  We’re invited.”  The latent mob-element was very near developing itself in these young gentlemen, high-bred, but irate.

At this moment, a wagon came whirling down the road around the ledges.  Dakie Thayne caught sight of the two white leaders, recognized them, and flew across to the hotel.  “Stop!” cried he.  At the same instant a figure moved hastily away from behind Miss Craydocke’s blinds.  It was a mercy that the wagon had driven around to the front hall door.

A mercy in one way; but the misfortune was that the supper-party within knew nothing of it.  A musical, lady-like laugh, quite in contrast to the demonstrative utterances outside, had just broken forth, in response to one of Sin Saxon’s brightest speeches, when through the adjoining apartment came suddenly upon them the unlooked-for apparition of “the spinster.”  Miss Craydocke went straight across to the beleaguered door, drew the bolt, and threw it back.  “Gently, young gentlemen!  Draw up the piazza chairs, if you please, and sit down,” said she.  “Mr. Lowe, Mr. Brookhouse, here are plates; will you be kind enough to serve your friends?”

In three minutes she had filled and passed outward half a dozen saucers of fruit, and sent a basket of cake among them.  Then she drew a seat for herself, and began to eat raspberries.  It was all done so quickly—­they were so either taken by surprise—­that nobody, inside or out, gain-said or delayed her by a word.