"You and your inventions will be the death of me," grumbled Eves, hugging himself.  Then with a sudden movement he caught up his pillow, slammed it at Templeton’s head, followed it up with a rush, and began to throw off his pyjamas.  "Get out!" he cried.  "I’ll tub and dress in five minutes—not for you, old greaser, but for the bacon I smell frying."