The sleeper had already slept off pretty nearly all the effects of his potations, and the sudden cold bath restored him wholly to himself. But it also aroused in him a feeling of anger, justifiable under the circumstances, and, not belonging to the Peace Society, he was moved to punish the person to whom he was indebted for his unpleasant experience.

With a smothered imprecation he sprang from the bed and seized the astonished Fogson by the throat, while he shook him violently.

"You—you—scoundrel!" he ejaculated. "I'll teach you to play such a scurvy trick on a gentleman."

Mr. Fogson screamed in fright. He did not catch his late victim's words, and was still under the impression that it was Jed who had tackled him.

Meanwhile the intruder was flinging him about and bumping him against the floor so forcibly that Mrs. Fogson's attention was attracted. Indeed, she was at the foot of the stairs, desiring to enjoy Jed's dismay when drenched with the contents of the tin dipper.

"What's the matter, Simeon?" she cried.

"Jed's killing me!" called out Fogson in muffled tones.

"You don't mean to say you ain't a match for that boy!" ejaculated Mrs. Fogson scornfully. "I'll come up and help you."

Disregarding her light attire she hurried up stairs, and was astonished beyond measure when she saw how unceremoniously her husband was being handled. She rushed to seize Jed, when she found her hands clutching a mustache.

"Why, it ain't Jed!" she screamed in dismay.

"No, it ain't Jed," said the intruder. "Did you mean that soaking for Jed, whoever he is?"

"Yes, yes, it was—quite a mistake!" gasped Fogson.

"I am glad to hear you say so, for I meant to fling you down stairs, and might have broken your neck."

"Oh, what a dreadful man!" ejaculated Mrs. Fogson. "How came you here and where is Jed?"

"I am here!" answered Jed, who had waked up two or three minutes previous and was enjoying the defeat of his persecutor.

"Did you bring in this man?" demanded Mrs. Fogson sternly.

"No. I walked in myself," answered the intruder. "I was rather mellow—in other words I had drunk too much mixed ale, and I really didn't know where I was. I had an idea that this was a hotel."

"You made a mistake, sir. This is the Scranton poorhouse."

"So the boy told me when he came in. I wouldn't have taken a bed here if I had known your playful way of pouring cold water on your guests."

"Sir, apart from your assault on me, me, the master of the poorhouse," said Fogson, trying to recover some of his lost dignity, "you committed a trespass in entering the house without permission and appropriating a bed."

"All right, old man, but just remember that I was drunk."

"I don't think that is an excuse."

"Isn't it? Just get drunk yourself, and see what you'll do."

"I don't allow Mr. Fogson to get drunk," said his wife with asperity.

"Maybe my wife wouldn't let me, if there was any such a person, but I haven't been so fortunate as Mr. Fogson, if that is his name."

"Mrs. F.," said her husband with a sudden thought, "you are not dressed for company."

Mrs. Fogson, upon this hint, scuttled down stairs, and the intruder resumed: "If I've taken a liberty I'm willing to apologize. What's more, I'll pay you fifty cents for the use of your bed and stay the night out."

He was appealing to Mr. Fogson's weak point, which was a love of money.

"I see you're ready to do the square thing," he said in softened accents. "If you'll say seventy-five——"

"No, I won't pay over fifty. I don't care to take it another night on those terms, if I am to be waked up by a dipper of water. You've wet the sheet and pillow so that I may take my death of cold if I sleep here any longer."

"I'll bring you a comforter which you can lay over the wet clothes."

"All right! Bring it up and I'll hand you the fifty cents."

"And—and if you would like breakfast in the morning, for the small extra sum of twenty-five cents——"

"Isn't that rather steep for a poorhouse breakfast?"

"You will not eat with the paupers, of course, but at a private table, with Mrs. Fogson and myself."

"All right! Your offer is accepted."

Mr. Fogson brought up the comforter, and the visitor resumed the slumbers which had been so unceremoniously interrupted.

The sun rose early, and when its rays crept in through the side window both Jed and his companion were awake.

"I say, boy, come over here and share my bed. I want to talk to you."

Jed's curiosity was excited, and he accepted the invitation.

He found his roommate to be a good-looking young man of perhaps thirty, and with a pleasant expression.

"So you are Jed?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"And you live in the poorhouse?"

"Yes," answered Jed, half-ashamed to admit it, "but I don't mean to stay here."

"Good! A smart boy like you ought not to be a pauper. You are able to earn your own living outside. But perhaps you are attached to the queer people who made me a visit last night."

"Not much!" answered Jed emphatically.

"I don't admire them much myself. I didn't see the old lady. Is she beautiful?"

Jed laughed heartily.

"You'll see her at the breakfast table," he said. "Then you can judge for yourself."

"I don't think I shall do anything to excite Fogson's jealousy. Zounds, if this isn't the queerest hotel I ever struck. I am sorry to have taken your bed from you."

"I was glad not to be in it when Mr. Fogson came up."

"You're right there," said the other laughing. "Whew! how the cold water startled me. Sorry to have deprived you of it."

"Mr. Fogson got a dose himself yesterday, only it was hot water."

"You don't say so! Was that meant for you, too?"

"Yes;" and Jed told the story of his struggle with Mr. Fogson, and his wife's unfortunate interference.

"That's a capital joke," said the visitor laughing. "Now I suppose you wonder who I am."

"Yes; I should like to know."

"I'm Harry Bertram, the actor. I don't know if you ever heard of me."

"I never attended the theatre in my life."

"Is that so? Why, you're quite a heathen. Never went to a theatre? Well, I am surprised."

"Is it a good business?" asked Jed.

"Sometimes, if the play happens to catch on. When you are stranded five hundred miles from home, and your salary isn't paid, it isn't exactly hilarious."

"Are you going to play anywhere near here?" asked Jed, who was beginning to think he would like to see a performance.

"We are billed to play in Duncan to-morrow evening, or rather this evening, for it's morning now."

"Duncan is only five miles away."

"If you want to attend I'll give you a pass. It's the least I can do to pay for turning you out of your bed."

"I could walk the five miles," said Jed.

"Then come. I'll see you at the door and pass you in. Ask for Harry Bertram."

"Thank you, Mr. Bertram."

"Old Fogson won't make a fuss about your going, will he?"

"Yes, he will; but I've made up my mind to leave the poorhouse, and I might as well leave it to-day as any time."

"Good! I admire your pluck."

"I wish I knew what I could do to make a living."

"Leave that to me. I'll arrange to have you travel with the show for two or three days and bunk with me. Have you got any—any better clothes than those?" and Bertram pointed to the dilapidated garments lying on a chair near by.

"Yes, I am promised a good suit by a friend of mine in the village. I'll go there and put them on before starting."

"Do; the actors sometimes look pretty tough, but I never saw one dressed like that."

"Jed!" screamed Mrs. Fogson from the bottom of the stairs. "You get right up and come down stairs!"

"They're calling me," said Jed, starting up.

"Will I have to get up too?"

"No; Mr. and Mrs. Fogson don't breakfast till seven. They'll send me up to call you."

"All right! We'll soon be travelling together where there are no Fogsons."

"I hope so," and Jed went down stairs with new life in his step.