“Open the door!” bellowed an indignant voice.  “Open the door!”

Mrs. Simpson, commanding silence with an uplifted finger, proceeded to carve the beef.  A rattle of knives and forks succeeded.

“O-pen-the-door!” said the voice again.

“Not so much noise,” commanded Mr. Cooper.  “I can’t hear myself eat.”

“Bob!” said the voice, in relieved accents, “Bob!  Come and let me out.”

Mr. Cooper, putting a huge hand over his mouth, struggled nobly with his feelings.

“Who are you calling ’Bob’?” he demanded, in an unsteady voice.  “You keep yourself to yourself.  I’ve heard all about you.  You’ve got to stay there till my brother-in-law comes home.”

“It’s me, Bob,” said Mr. Simpson—­“Bill.”

“Yes, I dare say,” said Mr. Cooper; “but if you’re Bill, why haven’t you got Bill’s voice?”

“Let me out and look at me,” said Mr. Simpson.

There was a faint scream from both ladies, followed by protests.

“Don’t be alarmed,” said Mr. Cooper, reassuringly.  “I wasn’t born yesterday.  I don’t want to get a crack over the head.”

“It’s all a mistake, Bob,” said the prisoner, appealingly.  “I just had a shave and a haircut and—­and a little hair-dye.  If you open the door you’ll know me at once.”

“How would it be,” said Mr. Cooper, turning to his sister, and speaking with unusual distinctness—­“how would it be if you opened the door, and just as he put his head out I hit it a crack with the poker?”

“You try it on,” said the voice behind the door, hotly.  “You know who I am well enough, Bob Cooper.  I don’t want any more of your nonsense.  Milly has put you up to this!”

“If your wife don’t know you, how do you think I can?” said Mr. Cooper.  “Now, look here; you keep quiet till my brother-in-law comes home.  If he don’t come home perhaps we shall be more likely to think you’re him.  If he’s not home by to-morrow morning we—­Hsh!  Hsh!  Don’t you know there’s ladies present?”

“That settles it,” said Mrs. Cooper, speaking for the first time.  “My brother-in-law would never talk like that.”

“I should never forgive him if he did,” said her husband, piously.

He poured himself out another glass of beer and resumed his supper with relish.  Conversation turned on the weather, and from that to the price of potatoes.  Frantic efforts on the part of the prisoner to join in the conversation and give it a more personal turn were disregarded.  Finally he began to kick with monotonous persistency on the door.

“Stop it!” shouted Mr. Cooper.

“I won’t,” said Mr. Simpson.

The noise became unendurable.  Mr. Cooper, who had just lit his pipe, laid it on the table and looked round at his companions.

“He’ll have the door down soon,” he said, rising.  “Halloa, there!”

“Halloa!” said the other.