ole in the corner and quailed in his belly, but the utter despair of
the two men dulled their astuteness.

"It would take a ladder for any one not a tumbler," said the wounded
man listlessly.

His companion broke into hysterical laughter.

"A tumbler. Oh, a tumbler. Oh--"

Wessel stared at them in wonder.

"That appeals to my most tragic humor," cried the man, "that no
one--oh, no one--could get up there but a tumbler."

The gallant with the wounded hand snapped his good fingers
impatiently.

"We must go next door--and then on--"

Helplessly they went as two walking under a dark and storm-swept sky.

Wessel closed and bolted the door and stood a moment by it, frowning
in pity.

A low-breathed "Ha!" made him look up. Soft Shoes had already raised
the trap and was looking down into the room, his rather elfish face
squeezed into a grimace, half of distaste, half of sardonic amusement.

"They take off their heads with their helmets," he remarked in a
whisper, "but as for you and me, Wessel, we are two cunning men."

"Now you be cursed," cried Wessel vehemently. "I knew you for a dog,
but when I hear even the half of a tale like this, I know you for such
a dirty cur that I am minded to club your skull."

Soft Shoes stared at him, blinking.

"At all events," he replied finally, "I find dignity impossible in
this position."

With this he let his body through the trap, hung for an instant, and
dropped the seven feet to the floor.

"There was a rat considered my ear with the air of a gourmet," he
continued, dusting his hands on his breeches. "I told him in the rat's
peculiar idiom that I was deadly poison, so he took himself off."

"Let's hear of this night's lechery!" insisted Wessel angrily.

Soft Shoes touched his thumb to his nose and wiggled the fingers
derisively at Wessel.

"Street gamin!" muttered Wessel.

"Have you any paper?" demanded Soft Shoes irrelevantly, and then
rudely added, "or can you write?"

"Why should I give you paper?"

"You wanted to hear of the night's entertainment. So you shall, an you
give me pen, ink, a sheaf of paper, and a room to myself."

Wessel hesitated.

"Get out!" he said finally.

"As you will. Yet you have missed a most intriguing story."

Wessel wavered--he was soft as taffy, that man--gave in. Soft Shoes
went into the adjoining room with the begrudged writing materials and
precisely closed the door. Wessel grunted and returned to "The Faerie
Queene"; so