An exploding revolver in No.

47 was quite likely to disturb the peaceful slumbers of the innocent occupant of No.

15, and every sound of quarrel in the thronged bar-room below caused the lodger to curl up in momentary expectation of a stray bullet coursing toward him through the floor.
With this to trouble him, he could lie there and hear everything that occurred within and without.

Every creak, stamp, and snore was faithfully reported; every curse, blow, snarl reechoed to his ears.
Inside was hell; outside was Sheridan.
Wearied, and half dead, as Keith was, sleep was simply impossible.
He heard heavy feet tramping up and down the hall; once a drunken man endeavored vainly to open his door; not far away there was a scuffle, and the sound of a body falling down stairs.

In some distant apartment a fellow was struggling to draw off his tight boots, skipping about on one foot amid much profanity.