``He plays Liszt like an angel,'' had been the hostess's
enthusiastic testimonial.
``He may play him like a trout for all I care,'' had been
Groby's mental comment, ``but I wouldn't mind betting that
be snores. He's just the sort and shape that would. And if
I hear him snoring through those ridiculous thin-panelled
walls, there'll be trouble.''
He did, and there was.
Groby stood it for about two and a quarter minutes, and
then made his way through the corridor into Spabbink's room.
Under Groby's vigorous measures the musicians flabby,
redundant figure sat up in bewildered semi-consciousness
like an ice-cream that has been taught to beg. Groby
prodded him into complete wakefulness, and then the pettish
self-satisfied pianist fairly lost his temper and slapped
his domineering visitant on the hand. In another moment
Spabbink was being nearly stifled and very effectually
gagged by a pillow-case tightly bound round his head, while
his plump pyjama'd limbs were hauled out of bed and smacked,
pinched, kicked, and bumped in a catch-as-catch-can progress
across the floor, towards the flat shallow bath in whose
utterly inadequate depths Groby perseveringly strove to
drown him.
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