Some time later I awoke and sat up with a start. Thump, thump, thump--blows rained steadily, monotonously, on my door. I switched on the light; it was 3.30 a.m. Springing out of bed, I threw open my door. The interrupter of my repose, apparently resting against it after his exertions, fell forward into the room and trod on my bare toes. I called him, in German, a clumsy donkey, and demanded to know what all of the noise was about. By way of reply he grinned at me amiably--as if we had a little joke in common--and promptly retreated. Puzzled by his behaviour, I looked along the corridor. Everything appeared to be all right, so I retired again to bed. Seven minutes, by my watch, had I been sleeping dreamlessly, when again that tattoo was beaten on my door. I nearly choked with anger, and, throwing off my quilt, I dashed madly to the door. Once more the idiot met me with an amiable grin. "You confounded fool!" I roared, shaking my fist in his beaming face; "what do you think you're doing? Even if this is an Hungarian game, do you think this is the time to start teaching it to a stranger? Your intentions may be good; I admit I am lonely; perhaps in the afternoon I may be glad to play some simple little game with you. But not now. Do you understand? Not at three in the morning. Get!" My vivacity appeared to cause him much satisfaction, and he again took his departure. I returned to bed. This time I didn't even succeed in getting to sleep; he must have been waiting round the corner. Once more he beat upon my door. I made no attempt to speak to him; I could not have expressed my feelings even in English; I seized him by the shoulders (luckily he was a good-tempered man) and shook him. Apparently, judging from the sound, I had shaken him to pieces. I looked on the ground and saw that he had dropped--my boots! This restored my speech. "Boots!" I shrieked, as he picked them up and politely offered them to me. "I want peace, not boots. Have I as much as mentioned boots to you? Does any sane man want his boots at three o'clock? Do you think I sleep in them? Do you imagine that's what's keeping me awake, not having them?" I think it was the man's perfect placidity that made me so mad. Had he lost _his_ temper, had he only sworn in Hungarian--a language admirably suited for the art, by the way--I should have felt better. But no; he maintained a perfect silence; he appeared to regard me as a lunatic on whom speech would be wasted. Realizing at last, however, that I was not yearning at that moment for my boots, he put them on one side--to be introduced again at a more suitable moment. Next he pointed to my pyjamas.