“You’d better hop into bed, mister.”
Mr. Dill mumbled as he swung his arms in the gesture of swimming.
“Got to keep movin’!”
“Wake up.” Bruce shook him vigorously.
The suspected representative of the “Guggenheimers” whined plaintively: “Itty tootsies awfy cold!”
“Itty tootsies will be colder if you don’t get ’em off this floor,” Bruce said with a grin, as he dipped his fingers in the pitcher and flirted the ice water in his face.
“Oh—hello!” Intelligence returned to Mr. Dill’s blank countenance. “Why, I must have been walking in my sleep. I always do when I sleep in a strange place, but I thought I’d locked myself in. I dreamed I was a fish freezing up in a cake of ice.”
“It’s not surprising.”
“Say.” Mr. Dill looked at him wistfully as he stood on one foot curling his purple toes around the other knee. “I wonder if you’d let me get in with you? I’m liable to do it again—sleeping cold and all.”
“Sure,” said Bruce sociably, leading the way. “Come ahead.”