He does not say this all at once, but breaks off two or three times to doze. Seeing him in this condition, the old man relinquishes his intention of asking him to go for Lily; his great anxiety now is to get rid of the tired-out man. But Mr. Podmore, overpowered by exhaustion, and wooed by the quiet that prevails, is so desperately bent upon falling into a deep sleep, that the old man has much difficulty in arousing him.
"Come, come," he urges, "rouse yourself, Mr. Podmore. Don't you think you would be more comfortable in bed?"
"I'm comfortable--enough," says Mr. Podmore, leaning his head on the old man's breast; "if you'll--let me be. I'm dead--beat. Where's my--precious--little Pollypod?"
"Up-stairs. Waiting for you. I want to take you to her."
Mr. Podmore rises unresistingly, and they stagger up-stairs to his apartment on the third floor. The dog follows them. A candle is alight in the wash-bowl, and Pollypod is in bed, asleep. The dog, satisfied that a safe haven is reached, leaps upon the bed, and after licking Pollypod's face, curls itself at the foot of the bed, following its master's movements now with lazily-watchful eyes. Mr. Podmore clings to the old man, who assists him on to the bed, and determines to wait until the tired-out man is asleep. Mr. Podmore, nestling close to Pollypod, thinks it necessary to enter into an explanation before his senses entirely desert him, and he mingles his apologies with expressions of endearment towards his child.
"You see, Mr. Wheels," he murmurs, at intervals, "When a man's--a pointsman--(my little darling!)--and has to be at it--fourteen and sixteen and eighteen--hours a day--he ain't accountable--for hisself. The company says--he is--and the public says--he is; but I'm--a pointsman--and I know--better. (Don't I, Pollypod!) I've been on duty--now--since five o'clock--this morning--and I'm dead--beat. (Dead--beat, Pollypod!) What'd the public--say to that--if they knew it? I'm dead--beat--and I ain't accountable--for myself. (Am I, my pretty?) I wish the public--and the company--'d try it theirselves,--for a month. (To-morrow's Sunday, Pollypod, thanks be!) Last week--there was a--a accident--on our line--you saw it--in the papers. One woman--was killed--and others was--shook. The papers had articles on it--and the pointsman--who was dead--beat--was took in custody--and the coroner--said--said—"
But what the coroner said is not repeated on the present occasion, for Mr. Podmore falls into utter unconsciousness, and being undoubtedly as dead-beat as it is in the power of mortal to be, sleeps the deepest of deep sleeps. While the faithful dog, cozily coiled up on the bed, blinks and blinks at the candle, in a state of uncertainty as to whether a lurid star which gleams in the long dull wick is friend or foe.
[CHAPTER II.]
IN WHICH DRIBBLE JUNIOR DISCOURSES ON CO-OPERATION.
The old man, leaving Mr. Podmore in paradise, walked slowly down-stairs, and paused before a door on the second landing, on which was inscribed--again in yellow round-hand on a blue ground: "Umbrella and Parasol Hospital. Knock and enter." After a slight hesitation, he knocked and entered.