Ravenslee blinked drowsily at the wall where purple roses bloomed, at the fly-blown text in the tarnished frame with its notable legend: 

LOVE ONE ANOTHER

and sighed.  But in his waking ears was the tap of the woodpecker, loud and persistent as ever!  Wherefore he started, stared, sat up suddenly and, glancing toward the window, beheld a large cap and a pair of shoulders he thought he recognised.

“Why, Spider!” he exclaimed, “what the—­”

“Sufferin’ Mike!” sighed the Spider plaintively, “here I’ve been knockin’ at your all-fired winder—­knockin’ an’ knockin’, an’ here you’ve been snorin’ and snorin’.”

“No, did I snore, Spider?”

“Bo, you sure are a bird for snorin’.”

“Damn it!” said Ravenslee, frowning, “I must break myself of it.”

“Thinkin’ of gettin’ married, bo?”

“Married?  What the—­”

“She’ll soon get useter it, I guess—­they all do!” said the unabashed Spider.  “Anyway, if you didn’t snore exactly, you sure had a strangle hold on the snooze business, all right.  Here’s me crawled out o’ me downy little cot t’ put ye wise t’ Bud’s little game, an’ here’s you diggin’ into the feathers t’ beat th’ band!”

“But the window was open; why didn’t you come in right away?”

“Not much, bo, I ain’t the kind o’ fool as makes a habit o’ wakin’ your kind out o’ their beauty sleep sudden, no more I ain’t a guy as takes liberties in strange bedrooms, see?”

“Well, come in, Spider—­sit on the bed; I haven’t a chair to offer.  By the way, I have to thank you—­”

“Whaffor?”

“Breaking that window—­”

“Oh, I guess it wasn’t a bad wheeze.”

“It gave me the chance I wanted, Spider.”

“Which you sure gripped with both mitts, bo!”

“Now have a cigar—­in that coat pocket—­”

“Not me, Geoff!  Smoke’s bad for th’ wind, that’s why I’ve took t’ gum.”  Saying which, the Spider proceeded to take out and open a packet of that necessary adjunct, and having posted it into his mouth piece by piece, fell to grim mastication.

“Bo,” said he suddenly, “you come away without your roof last night.”

“Eh?” said Ravenslee, blinking drowsily, “my what?”

“Your lid, bo.”

“You mean my old hat?”

“That’s what I’m tryin’ t’ tell you—­an’ say, that sure is the hardest bean cover I ever spotted; made of iron, is it?  Where’d you find it?”

“At some dim and distant day it originated in England, I believe.”

“Well, that lid would turn a poleaxe, sure; that’s why I brought it back—­it’s out on the fire escape now.”

“Very kind of you, Spider, but—­”

“Bo, you’re goin’ t’ need that hat an’ a soot o’ tin underwear from now on unless—­well, unless you pack y’r trunk an’ clear out o’ Hell’s Kitchen on th’ jump.”

“Why so?”