I have been strictly reared, but if it had not been so dark and solemn and awful there in that lonely, vast room, I do believe I should have said something then which could not be put into a Sunday-school book without injuring the sale of it.  If my reasoning powers had not been already sapped dry by my harassments, I would have known better than to try to set an umbrella on end on one of those glassy German floors in the dark; it can’t be done in the daytime without four failures to one success.  I had one comfort, though—­Harris was yet still and silent—­he had not stirred.

The umbrella could not locate me—­there were four standing around the room, and all alike.  I thought I would feel along the wall and find the door in that way.  I rose up and began this operation, but raked down a picture.  It was not a large one, but it made noise enough for a panorama.  Harris gave out no sound, but I felt that if I experimented any further with the pictures I should be sure to wake him.  Better give up trying to get out.  Yes, I would find King Arthur’s Round Table once more—­I had already found it several times—­and use it for a base of departure on an exploring tour for my bed; if I could find my bed I could then find my water pitcher; I would quench my raging thirst and turn in.  So I started on my hands and knees, because I could go faster that way, and with more confidence, too, and not knock down things.  By and by I found the table—­with my head—­rubbed the bruise a little, then rose up and started, with hands abroad and fingers spread, to balance myself.  I found a chair; then a wall; then another chair; then a sofa; then an alpenstock, then another sofa; this confounded me, for I had thought there was only one sofa.  I hunted up the table again and took a fresh start; found some more chairs.

It occurred to me, now, as it ought to have done before, that as the table was round, it was therefore of no value as a base to aim from; so I moved off once more, and at random among the wilderness of chairs and sofas —­wandering off into unfamiliar regions, and presently knocked a candlestick and knocked off a lamp, grabbed at the lamp and knocked off a water pitcher with a rattling crash, and thought to myself, “I’ve found you at last—­I judged I was close upon you.”  Harris shouted “murder,” and “thieves,” and finished with “I’m absolutely drowned.”

The crash had roused the house.  Mr. X pranced in, in his long night-garment, with a candle, young Z after him with another candle; a procession swept in at another door, with candles and lanterns—­landlord and two German guests in their nightgowns and a chambermaid in hers.

I looked around; I was at Harris’s bed, a Sabbath-day’s journey from my own.  There was only one sofa; it was against the wall; there was only one chair where a body could get at it—­I had been revolving around it like a planet, and colliding with it like a comet half the night.