could hear the Kid Next Door moving about getting
ready for bed and humming "Every Little Movement Has a Meaning of Its
Own" very lightly, under his breath. He polished his shoes briskly, and
Gertie smiled there in the darkness of her own room in sympathy. Poor
kid, he had his beauty struggles, too.

Gertie had never seen the Kid Next Door, although he had come four months
ago. But she knew he wasn't a grouch, because he alternately whistled
and sang off-key tenor while dressing in the morning. She had also
discovered that his bed must run along the same wall against which her
bed was pushed. Gertie told herself that there was something almost
immodest about being able to hear him breathing as he slept. He had
tumbled into bed with a little grunt of weariness.

Gertie lay there another hour, staring into the darkness. Then she began
to cry softly, lying on her face with her head between her arms. The
cold cream and the salt tears mingled and formed a slippery paste.
Gertie wept on because she couldn't help it. The longer she wept the
more difficult her sobs became, until finally they bordered on the
hysterical. They filled her lungs until they ached and reached her
throat with a force that jerked her head back.

"Rap-rap-rap!" sounded sharply from the head of her bed.

Gertie stopped sobbing, and her heart stopped beating. She lay tense and
still, listening. Everyone knows that spooks rap three times at the head
of one's bed. It's a regular high-sign with them.

"Rap-rap-rap!"

Gertie's skin became goose-flesh, and coldwater effects chased up and
down her spine.

"What's your trouble in there?" demanded an unspooky voice so near that
Gertie jumped. "Sick?"

It was the Kid Next Door.

"N-no, I'm not sick," faltered Gertie, her mouth close to the wall. Just
then a belated sob that had stopped halfway when the raps began hustled
on to join its sisters. It took Gertie by surprise, and brought prompt
response from the other side of the wall.

"I'll bet I scared you green. I didn't mean to, but, on the square, if
you're feeling sick, a little nip of brandy will set you up. Excuse my
mentioning it, girlie, but I'd do the same for my sister. I hate like
sin to hear a woman suffer like that, and, anyway, I don't know whether
you're fourteen or forty, so it's perfectly respectable. I'll get the
bottle and leave it outside your door."

"No you don't!" answered Gertie in a hollow voice, praying mea