“Doctor,” I said, coolly, as I boldly confronted him, “I am not accustomed to sleeping in the fourth story: couldn’t you give me a room lower down?” CHAPTER V. ACCOMMODATED WITH A “ROOM LOWER DOWN.” I NEVER saw a man stare with such pure unalloyed astonishment as the Doctor did on this occasion. Not five minutes had elapsed since he had had me locked up in the guard-house, and yet, there I was—free. He stared at me for a moment as though I were an apparition from the dead, then stammered: “Why—why—is—is—this—John Smith?” “So I am called,” I replied, coolly taking a seat on a bench. He arose from his seat, stared for a moment, again, with contracted brows and a puzzled expression of countenance, then said: “I—I—thought you—were put—in No. 41!” “So I was,” I calmly replied. And I deliberately took a newspaper from my pocket and cast my eye over the late items. “How—how—in the name of sense—did you get out?” “O, that was easy,” I replied, carelessly, as I regarded the paper more attentively. “Sergeant Kinsley,” said the Doctor, calling to the insignificant little sergeant who was standing at the other end of the porch, “come here.” The sergeant approached. “Didn’t you put Smith in the guard-house?” “Yes sir,” returned Kinsley. “Here he is,” said the Doctor, pointing to me. “How did he get out?” Kinsley, who had not before observed my presence, started back, turned pale, and said: “I—I—don’t know.” “Go and see,” said the Doctor. Glad to get out of my presence, Kinsley ran up stairs, and in a minute or so returned, and reported what had been done. Now, if the Doctor had possessed the heart of a human being he would have suspended his persecutions, after that—in a word, would have “let up” on me—but he seemed entirely impervious to good jokes, practical or otherwise, and was more than ever determined to punish me. “Sergeant,” said he, no doubt thinking _he_ was perpetrating a joke—but _I_ couldn’t see it—“Smith wants a room _lower down_, he says. I think we can accommodate him. _Put him in the cellar!_” There was, in the basement, a dark apartment with an iron door—the same room in which crazy Thomas had been confined—and that was the “room lower down” assigned me on this melancholy occasion. “Will you go?” said Kinsley, standing off at a respectful distance: “Or will it be necessary to call the guard?” “It will be necessary to call the guard,” I replied, folding up my paper, arising and taking a hostile attitude. “You might as well go with him quietly, Smith”—the Doctor began. “No I won’t,” I interrupted. “Should I do so, it is not positively certain that he would get back in a sound condition, and you might lose a valuable servant, who is not scrupulous about turning his hand to any sort of work.” “Call the guard,” said the Doctor. The guard was called. I was put in the cellar.