Mr. Wrenn had bloodthirstily disapproved Horatio Hood’s effeminate remarks, such as “Tee hee!” and “Oh, you naughty man,” but when he heard that this molly-coddle had shared in the glory of making moving pictures he went proudly forth with him and Tom.  He had no chance to speak to Mrs. Arty about taking the room to be vacated.

He wished that Charley Carpenter or the Zapps could see him sitting right beside an actor who was shown in the pictures miraculously there before them, asking him how they made movies, just as friendly as though they had known each other always.

He wanted to do something to entertain his friends beyond taking them out for a drink.  He invited them down to his room, and they came.

Teddem was in wonderful form; he mimicked every one they saw so amiably that Tom Poppins knew the actor wanted to borrow money.  The party were lovingly humming the popular song of the time—­“Any Little Girl That’s a Nice Little Girl is the Right Little Girl for Me”—­as they frisked up the gloomy steps of the Zapps.  Entering, Poppins and Teddem struck attitudes on the inside stairs and sang aloud.

Mr. Wrenn felt enormously conscious of Mrs. Zapp down below.  He kept listening, as he led them up-stairs and lighted the gas.  But Teddem so imitated Colonel Roosevelt, with two water-glasses for eye-glasses and a small hat-brush for mustache, that Mr. Wrenn was moved wrigglingly to exclaim:  “Say, I’m going out and get some beer.  Or ’d you rather have something else?  Some cheese sandwiches?  How about ’em?”

“Fine,” said Tom and Teddem together.

Not only did Mr. Wrenn buy a large newspaper-covered bundle of bottles of beer and Swiss-cheese sandwiches, but also a small can of caviar and salty crackers.  In his room he spread a clean towel, then two clean towels, on the bureau, and arrayed the feast, with two water-glasses and a shaving-mug for cups.

Horatio Hood Teddem, spreading caviar on a sandwich, and loudly singing his masterpiece, “Waal I swan,” stopped short and fixed amazed eyes on the door of the room.

Mr. Wrenn hastily turned.  The light fell—­as on a cliff of crumbly gray rock—­on Mrs. Zapp, in the open door, vast in her ungirdled gray wrapper, her arms folded, glowering speechlessly.

“Mist’ Wrenn,” she began, in a high voice that promised to burst into passion.

But she was addressing the formidable adventurer, Bill Wrenn.  He had to protect his friends.  He sprang up and walked across to her.

He said, quietly, “I didn’t hear you knock, Mrs. Zapp.”

“Ah didn’t knock, and Ah want you should—­”

“Then please do knock, unless you want me to give notice.”

He was quivering.  His voice was shrill.

From the hall below Theresa called up, “Ma, come down here. Ma!”

But Mrs. Zapp was too well started.  “If you think Ah’m going to stand for a lazy sneaking little drunkard keeping the whole street awake, and here it is prett’ nearly midnight—­”