“Well,” he muttered, “this is a bit thick, this is!” (They use such language in cathedral towns.) “However, let’s hope it’s the last.”

It was not the last.  Exactly, it was the last but twenty-three.  Regularly at intervals of five minutes the Five Towns Electric Traction Company, Limited, sent one of their dreadful engines down the street, apparently with the object of disintegrating all the real property in the neighbourhood into its original bricks.  At the seventeenth time Mr Cowlishaw trembled to hear a renewal of the bump-bump-bump.  It was the oval-wheeled car, which had been to Longshaw and back.  He recognized it as an old friend.  He wondered whether he must expect it to pass a third time.  However, it did not pass a third time.  After several clocks in and out of the hotel had more or less agreed on the fact that it was one o’clock, there was a surcease of earthquakes.  Mr Cowlishaw dared not hope that earthquakes were over.  He waited in strained attention during quite half an hour, expectant of the next earthquake.  But it did not come.  Earthquakes were, indeed, done with till the morrow.

It was about two o’clock when his nerves were sufficiently tranquillized to enable him to envisage the possibility of going to sleep.  And he was just slipping, gliding, floating off when he was brought back to realities by a terrific explosion of laughter at the head of the stairs outside his bedroom door.  The building rang like the inside of a piano when you strike a wire directly.  The explosion was followed by low rumblings of laughter and then by a series of jolly, hearty “Good-nights.”  He recognized the voices as being those of a group of commercial travellers and two actors (of the Hanbridge Theatre Royal’s specially selected London Pantomime Company), who had been pointed out to him with awe and joy by the aforesaid barmaid.  They were telling each other stories in the private bar, and apparently they had been telling each other stories ever since.  And the truth is that the atmosphere of the Turk’s Head, where commercial travellers and actors forgather every night except perhaps Sundays, contains more good stories to the cubic inch than any other resort in the county of Staffordshire.  A few seconds after the explosion there was a dropping fusillade—­the commercial travellers and the actors shutting their doors.  And about five minutes later there was another and more complicated dropping fusillade—­the commercial travellers and actors opening their doors, depositing their boots (two to each soul), and shutting their doors.

Then silence.

And then out of the silence the terrified Mr Cowlishaw heard arising and arising a vast and fearful breathing, as of some immense prehistoric monster in pain.  At first he thought he was asleep and dreaming.  But he was not.  This gigantic sighing continued regularly, and Mr Cowlishaw had never heard anything like it before.  It banished sleep.

After about two hours of its awful uncanniness, Mr Cowlishaw caught the sound of creeping footsteps in the corridor and fumbling noises.  He got up again.  He was determined, though he should have to interrogate burglars and assassins, to discover the meaning of that horrible sighing.  He courageously pulled his door open, and saw an aproned man with a candle marking boots with chalk, and putting them into a box.