As Hike held up his hands in a prayer for mercy, Poodle let fly the pillow, which—driven as well as the _Hustle_ ever had been—took Hike in the face. Hike dived across the armchair. He was busy drawing stars and crosses on Poodle’s face with a lead pencil, while Poodle was dexterously kicking him, when there was a knock. The knocker was a grinning bell-boy, about Hike’s age and build, who seemed much delighted to see the hotel’s most famous guests in much disarrayed pajamas, and acting (almost!) as though they were—well, were boys! “Say, there’s a reporter guy downstairs that wants to interview youse. He’s a fresh un—I know him. He t’inks he’s a winner ’cause he can put down on a paper wot a guy ain’t said and draw him like he don’t look, both to once.” “Oh, gee, I don’t want to get interviewed,” wailed Hike. “Say, can’t he interview Darby, here? Gwan, Pood’, please tell him I’ve got combobulus of the elevating planes, and my chassis is awf’ly rheumatic and generally Mr. G. J. H. Griffin begs will he please beat it.” “Aw, Hike, I don’t want to get interviewed, neither,” blushed Poodle, pulling a magnificent new purple dressing-gown about him, and making signs of a desire to jump out of the windows. “Say, Dr. Bell-Boy, why don’t you have him interview you, instead?” requested Hike. The bell-boy grinned, “Oh, youse guys just wait. There’ll be a million and a half reporters here, right away. Associated Press and United Press and all the Washington papers and all the guys wot writes up what they t’ink Congress oughta be doin’, for the Kalamazoo Avalanche and the South Sauk Centre Hoop-la. Oh, dere’ll be a hot time for youse!” “Oh, let me die,” mourned Hike, and stood on his head on a pillow, as though he were trying to choke himself. “Say, SAY!” suggested the great Poodle, excitedly, “that’s a peach of an idea of yours, Hike. Why not have the reporter chap interview Dr. Bell-Boy for you? Say, Doctor, you said you knew this reporter, but does he know you?” “Naw. Dat’s where a bell-hop gets next. He keeps behind the keyhole and never says nawthin’ to nobody no time, and knows everything dat’s going on.” “Say,” urged Poodle, “you strip off your clothes, and put on Hike’s pajamas, and get _in_ bed, and let Hike sneak _under_ the bed here, and we’ll have one splendiferous time with Mr. Reporter, Esquire.” Grinning, the bell-boy obeyed, and while Hike crawled under his bed, with a pillow and a cup of cocoa, the bell-boy became a very sleepy but rather dignified young aviator. Another boy admitted the clever young reporter. Poodle sat by the window, magnificent in his dressing-gown, and listened. The reporter was a young, young man. He stumbled into the room in a way that made Poodle remark to himself that he “sort of pushed his eye-glasses ahead of him as though he was going to grab something with ’em, and smole real nice—only he just kept that smile for interviews and slapped it on like a hair-puff.”