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I suppose I must have dropped off myself at last; for the next thing I remember, it was broad daylight, and the young cad was sitting on the top of me as merry as a cricket, trying to prize my eyes open with his fingers.

“Can’t you let a chap be?” grunted I; “haven’t you made a beast enough of yourself all night without starting again now?”

“I want to see your eyes,” said he.

Then he began to jump up and down on the top of me, and explained that he was “riding in the puff-puff.”

I wished to goodness he was! Of course I had to wake up, and then we had those brutal “Three Bears” on again for an hour, till it was time to get up.

He insisted on being tubbed all over, with soap, and criticised me all the while.

“Boys who spill on the carpet must be whipped,” said he. “Mother will whip you, and you’ll cry–ha, ha!”

“I don’t care,” said I, “as long as she clears you off.”

He never seemed to understand what I said, and wasn’t a bit set down by this.

Then came the same old game of getting him into his togs, and parting his horrid hair, and blowing his nose, and all that.

I can tell you I was about sick of it when it was done.

When we got down in the hall, the first chap we met was the hotel man.

“There’s the ugly man with the red nose,” sings out the kid. “I can see him–there is he!” pointing with all his might.

“Look here, young gentleman,” said the man, coming to me, “we aren’t used to be kept awake all night by your noise or your baby’s. You may tell your papa he needn’t send you here again. There’s half a dozen of my visitors leaving to-day, because they couldn’t get a wink of sleep all night.”

“No more could I,” said I.

He was going to say something more, but just then a man came in from the street. Directly he spotted the kid, he rushed up to him.

“Why, it is Tommy,” said he.

Tommy put on a grin, and dug his hands into his pockets. “I’ve got a knife,” said he, “of my very own.”

“Are you the young gentleman who left the message at Waterloo?” said the man. “Why, the letter I got said the train got in at 8 a.m., not 8 p.m. You don’t know what a turn it gave me to go down there this morning and not see him. Have you had him here all night?”

“Rather,” said I.

“Daddy, there’s an ugly man came to this house. I can see him now, with a red nose. Look there!”

“I hope he’s been a good boy,” said the proud father. “I’m sure I’m much obliged. I’m afraid he’s been a trouble to you. I’ve got a cab here. My word, I’m glad I’ve got you safe, Tommy, my boy. Come, say good-bye to the kind gentleman.”

“He was naughty, and spilt the water on the floor. He must be whipped– ha, ha!” observed Tommy, by way of farewell.

He didn’t seem to care twopence about leaving me, and chucked me up for his governor as if I’d been a railway porter. However, I can tell you I was glad to see the back of him, and didn’t envy his governor a little bit.

Of course, I’d lost my first train home, and had to wait till mid-day, to endure the scowls of the hotel man, and the frowns of all the people who had been kept awake by the kid’s row. Among others there was the professor.

“Well,” said he, “what sort of night did baby have?”

“Middling,” said I.

“I expected it would be middling,” said he.

Now, Jossy, you know what I mean by “‘Ware kids.” Keep all this mum, whatever you do. I wouldn’t have any of the fellows hear about it for the world. I can tell you, I feel as if I deserve a week’s holiday longer than the rest of you. Never you utter the words “Three Bears” in my hearing, or there’ll be a row.

Yours truly, Gus. Cutaway.