“Oh, yes, quite, quite.  But really, doctor, I shouldn’t permit this.  I feel like a tresspasser, like—­a—­a—­”

“You feel like going to sleep, that’s what I want you to feel like.  Lucky the rain has driven off the fog or the foghorn would keep you awake.  It sounds like the crack of doom down here.  Perhaps you noticed it?”

“Yes, I did—­ah—­at least that.”

“I shouldn’t wonder.  Anybody but a graven image would notice the Gould’s Bluffs foghorn.  Matches right there by the lamp, in case you want ’em.  If you feel mean in the night sing out; Martha’ll hear you and come in.  I’ll be on hand in the morning.  Good-night, Mr. Bangs.”

He blew out the lamp and departed, closing the door behind him.  The rain poured upon the roof overhead and splashed against the panes of the two little windows beneath the eaves.  Galusha Bangs, warm and dry for the first time in hours, sank comfortably to sleep.

He woke early, at least he felt sure it was early until he looked at his watch.  Then he discovered it was almost nine o’clock.  He had had a wonderful night’s rest and he felt quite himself, quite well again, he—­

Whew!  That shoulder was a trifle stiff.  Yes, and there was a little more lameness in his ankles and knees than he could have wished.  Perhaps, after all, he would not get up immediately.  He would lie there a little longer and perhaps have the hotel people send up his breakfast, and—­ Then he remembered that he was not at the hotel; he was occupying a room in the house of a total stranger.  No doubt they were waiting breakfast for him.  Dear me, dear me!

He climbed stiffly out of bed and began to dress.  This statement is not quite correct; he prepared to begin to dress.  Just as he reached the important point where it was time to put something on he made a startling discovery:  His clothes were gone!

It was true, they were gone, every last item of them with the unimportant exceptions of crumpled collar and tie.  Galusha looked helplessly about the room and shivered.

“Oh, dear me!” he cried, aloud.  “Oh, dear!”

A voice outside his chamber door made answer.

“Be you awake, Mr. Bangs?” asked Primmie.  “Here’s your things.  Doctor Powers he come up and got ’em last night after you’d fell asleep and me and Miss Martha we hung ’em alongside the kitchen stove.  They’re dried out fine.  Miss Martha says you ain’t to get up, though, till the doctor comes.  I’ll leave your things right here on the floor. . . .  Or shall I put ’em inside?”

“Oh, no, no!  Don’t, don’t!  I mean put them on the floor—­ah—­ outside.  Thank you, thank you.”

“Miss Martha said if you was awake to ask you if you felt better.”

“Oh, yes—­yes, much better, thank you.  Thank you—­yes.”

He waited in some trepidation, until he heard Primmie clump downstairs.  Then he opened the door a crack and retrieved his “things.”  They were not only dry, but clean, and the majority of the wrinkles had been pressed from his trousers and coat.  The mud had even been brushed from his shoes.  Not that Galusha noticed all this just then.  He was busy dressing, having a nervous dread that the unconventional Primmie might find she had forgotten something and come back to bring it.