Sam sighed luxuriously and wondered what time it was. Not, however, that it mattered much, he supposed, for he had been told that he was not to get up this morning until he had had his breakfast and his knee had been rebandaged. He snuggled his head more comfortably in the generous pillow, inadvertently moving his knee and grimacing as a result, and recalled last evening. The trip in Mr. York’s roadster had occupied but a very few minutes, for which Sam had been very thankful, since, in spite of all the trouble they had taken to arrange him comfortably beside Mr. York, the jarring had set his knee thumping painfully. Steve had ridden on the running-board and had helped lift him in and out of the car. Sam remembered the big room into which they had entered from the twilight darkness, a room of dark woodwork and red hangings and cushions and many lamps which left the upper part of the room in pleasant and mysterious gloom. He hadn’t been allowed to see much down there, though, for they had at once carried him up a broad flight of stairs and into this blue-and-white chamber, the like of which Sam had never viewed. He remembered saying good night to Steve and having his knee done up afresh in cool, wet cloths, and—well, not much after that. He must have gone to sleep almost the next instant!
Somewhere downstairs a clock struck in silvery tones. He counted. Five—six—seven—eight! Eight o’clock! It couldn’t be possible! He must have counted wrong. Why, he couldn’t remember when he had lain in bed, much less slept, as late as that! He began to wonder uncomfortably if his injury could really be more serious than he had supposed, for with Sam only real illness excused staying in bed until such an hour. He lifted his head experimentally and turned it from side to side. It seemed to feel all right. And he couldn’t detect any signs of fever. He had, of course, heard of folks being internally injured, but he didn’t know what the symptoms would be, and so wasn’t certain if he had them. He really felt remarkably well, except that his knee hurt if he moved it or flexed the muscles, and, on the whole, he concluded, not without a feeling of relief, that he had mistaken the striking of the clock.
From somewhere not far off came the subdued rushing of water. Someone was going to have a bath. Therefore it couldn’t be very late. Also, a moment later, he was pleasantly aware of a faint aroma of coffee and something else that might be broiling ham or bacon. He suddenly knew that he was very, very hungry. A door slammed nearby and a merry whistle floated down the hall. Then silence again. Sam closed his eyes——
“——Breakfast coming up in a minute,” a voice was saying, “and I thought maybe you’d like to wash up a bit.”
Sam blinked dazedly. Beside the bed stood Mr. York, smiling, fresh and cool in white flannels. Sam viewed him in consternation.
“I—I believe I went to sleep again!” he stammered.
“I’m sure you did!” laughed his host.
“But—but what time is it?”
“Oh, about eight-thirty. It’s not late.”
“Eight-thirty! Why, I never slept that late in my life!” exclaimed Sam in horrified tones. Mr. York laughed delightedly.