Pservilius spongia threw back the coverlet and drew himself up on the narrow pallet that was his bed. It was cold—cold and dark; the first rays of daylight were only just beginning to creep in through the small slit of a window. Yes, cold and dark; but there was a patron to be visited before the first hour, and it would take a full hour's walk to get to his house. Spongia sprang out of bed, poured a little cold water into his basin and washed in haste. Then he opened the window and tilted the dirty water out into the street below. An answering cry suggested that the chance shot had found a mark. ‘Better wait a few minutes before I start,’ thought Spongia, ‘it sounds as if I had hit some one; it is possible that he may be annoyed.’