d, I arrived here at ten
o'clock last night. The peach pie, the apple pie, and the apricot pie
had settled their differences and become on friendly and accommodating
terms.

I was able, on arriving at the hotel, to enjoy some light refreshments,
which I only obtained, at that time of night, thanks to the manager,
whom I had the pleasure of knowing personally.

At eleven o'clock I went to bed, or, to use a more proper expression for
my Philadelphia readers, I retired.

I had been "retiring" for about half an hour, when I heard a knock at
the door.

"Who's there?" I grumbled from under the bedclothes.

"A representative of the Brushville _Express_."

"Oh," said I, "I am very sorry--but I'm asleep."

"Please let me in; I won't detain you very long."

"I guess you won't. Now, please do not insist. I am tired, upset, ill,
and I want rest. Come to-morrow morning."

"No, I can't do that," answered the voice behind the door; "my paper
appears in the morning, and I want to put in something about you."

"Now, do go away," I pleaded, "there's a good fellow."

"I must see you," insisted the voice.

"You go!" I cried, "you go----" without mentioning any place.

For a couple of minutes there was silence, and I thought the interviewer
was gone. The illusion was sweet, but short. There was another knock,
followed by a "I really must see you to-night." Seeing that there would
be no peace until I had let the reporter in, I unbolted the door, and
jumped back into my--you know.

[Illustration: THE INTERVIEWER.]

It was pitch dark.

The door opened; and I heard the interviewer's steps in the room. By and
by, the sound of a pocket being searched was distinct. It was his own. A
match was pulled out and struck; the premises examined and
reconnoitered.

A chandelier with three lights hung in the middle of the room. The
reporter, speechless and solemn, lighted one burner, then two, then
three, chose the most comfortable seat, and installed himself in it,
looking at me with an air of triumph.

I was sitting up, wild and desheveled, in my "retiring" clothes.

"_Que voulez-vous?_" I wanted to yell, my state of drowsiness allowing
me to think only in French.

Instead of translating this query by "What do you want?" as I should
have done, if I had been in the complete enjoyment of my intellectual
faculties, I shouted to him:

"What will you have?"

"Oh, thanks, I'm not particular," he calmly replied. "I'll have a little