After the food, sleep became insistent. I had not slept since Pulta, and had done a good deal in the meantime. I was as tired as a hound after a long day, and had scarcely settled myself on the bench against the corner of the wall before I was off.
Not for long, however. I dreamed that some huge monster animal was suffocating me and woke to find it was my guard’s heavy coat sleeve pressing against my face as he leaned across to get at the pocket where my money was.
“Helping yourself, are you?”
He got up hurriedly and a couple of coins fell from his hand to the floor.
“I only wanted to see you were comfortable,” he mumbled.
“You thought the money might make too big a lump for comfort, eh? Very nice of you. Your officer counted it, so you can tell him how much you’ve taken. It’ll be all right.”
He swore—perhaps at the feebleness of the sarcasm; but he thrust the money back and sat down in his chair again glowering at me.
I settled myself in my corner once more and slept this time until somebody shook me violently.
It was my friend of the Devil’s Staircase; and he bade me get up at once and go with him.
I yawned. “Where to?”