"I'll doss here," he said; "there's plenty papers"--he knew by experience that, as bed-clothes, newspapers are warm, if noisy--"and get on in the morning afore people's up." He collected all the paper and straw--there was a good deal littered about in the house--and made a heap in the corner, out of the way of the window. He did not feel afraid of sleeping in an empty house, only very lordly and magnificent because he had a whole house to himself. The food still left in his pockets served for supper, and you could drink quite well at the wash-house tap by putting your head under and turning it on very slowly. And for a final enjoyment he laid out his treasures on the newspaper--Tinkler and the seal in the middle and the pearly counters arranged in patterns round them, circles and squares and oblongs. The seeds lay very flat and fitted close together. They were excellent for making patterns with. And presently he made, with triple lines of silvery seeds, a six-pointed star, something like this-- [Illustration] ^ / \ _____/___\_____ \ / \ / \ / \ / ^ ^ / \ / \ /___\_____/___\ \ / \ / v with the rattle and the seal in the middle, and the light from the street lamp shone brightly on it all. "That's the prettiest of the lot," said Dickie Harding, alone in the empty house. And then the magic began. CHAPTER IV WHICH WAS THE DREAM? THE two crossed triangles of white seeds, in the midst Tinkler and the white seal, lay on the floor of the little empty house, grew dim and faint before Dickie's eyes, and his eyes suddenly smarted and felt tired so that he was very glad to shut them. He had an absurd fancy that he could see, through his closed eyelids, something moving in the middle of the star that the two triangles made. But he knew that this must be nonsense, because, of course, you cannot see through your eyelids. His eyelids felt so heavy that he could not take the trouble to lift them even when a voice spoke quite near him. He had no doubt but that it was the policeman come to "take him up" for being in a house that was not his. "Let him," said Dickie to himself. He was too sleepy to be afraid. But for a policeman, who is usually of quite a large pattern, the voice was unusually soft and small. It said briskly-- "Now, then, where do you want to go to?" "I ain't particular," said Dickie, who supposed himself to be listening to an offer of a choice of police-stations. There were whispers--two small and soft voices. They made a sleepy music. "He's more yours than mine," said one. "You're more his than I am," said the other. "You're older than I am," said the first. "You're stronger than I am," said the second. "Let's spin for it," said the first voice, and there was a humming sound ending in a little tinkling fall.