(_Leaves from a holiday diary._)
I.
An outrage has occurred in the hotel. Late on Monday night ten innocent
visitors discovered themselves the possessors of apple-pie beds. The
beds were not of the offensive hair-brush variety, but they were very
cleverly constructed, the under-sheet being pulled up in the good old
way and turned over at the top as if it were the top-sheet.
I had one myself. The lights go out at eleven and I got into bed in the
dark. When one is very old and has not been to school for a long time or
had an apple-pie bed for longer still, there is something very uncanny
in the sensation, especially if it is dark. I did not like it at all. My
young brother-in-law, Denys, laughed immoderately in the other bed at my
flounderings and imprecations. He did not have one. I suspect him....
II.
Naturally the hotel is very much excited. It is the most thrilling event
since the mixed foursomes. Nothing else has been discussed since
breakfast. Ten people had beds and about ten people are suspected. The
really extraordinary thing is that numbers of people seem to suspect
_me_! That is the worst of being a professional humourist; everything is
put down to you.
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