The advantage an inn has over a private house, from the point of view of the person who wants to get into it when it has been locked up, is that a nocturnal visit is not so unexpected in the case of the former. Preparations have been made to meet such an emergency. Where with a private house you would probably have to wander around heaving rocks and end by climbing up a waterspout, when you want to get into an inn you simply ring the night bell, which, communicating with the boots' room, has that hard-worked menial up and doing in no time. After Mike had waited for a few minutes there was a rattling of chains and a shooting of bolts and the door opened. "Yes, sir?" said the boots, appearing in his shirt sleeves. "Why, 'ello! Mr. Jackson, sir!" Mike was well known to all dwellers in Lower Borlock, his scores being the chief topic of conversation when the day's labors were over. "I want to see Mr. Barley, Jack." "He's bin' in bed this half hour back, Mr. Jackson." "I must see him. Can you get him down?" The boots looked doubtful. "Roust the guv'nor outer bed?" he said. Mike quite admitted the gravity of the task. The landlord of the White Boar was one of those men who need a beauty sleep. "I wish you would--it's a thing that can't wait. I've got some money to give to him." "Oh, if it's _that_ ..." said the boots. Five minutes later mine host appeared in person, looking more than usually portly in a check dressing gown and red bedroom slippers. "You can pop off, Jack." Exit boots to his slumbers once more. "Well, Mr. Jackson, what's it all about?" "Jellicoe asked me to come and bring you the money." "The money? What money?" "What he owes you; the five pounds, of course." "The five--" Mr. Barley stared openmouthed at Mike for a moment; then he broke into a roar of laughter which shook the sporting prints on the wall and drew barks from dogs in some distant part of the house. He staggered about laughing and coughing till Mike began to expect a fit of some kind. Then he collapsed into a chair, which creaked under him, and wiped his eyes. "Oh dear!" he said, "Oh dear! The five pounds!" Mike was not always abreast of the rustic idea of humor, and now he felt particularly fogged. For the life of him he could not see what there was to amuse anyone so much in the fact that a person who owed five pounds was ready to pay it back. It was an occasion for rejoicing, perhaps, but rather for a solemn, thankful, eyes-raised-to-heaven kind of rejoicing. "What's up?" he asked. "Five pounds!" "You might tell us the joke." Mr. Barley opened the letter, read it, and had another attack; when this was finished he handed the letter to Mike, who was waiting patiently by, hoping for light, and requested him to read it.