“Don’t any of them look human to me,” said Hal. “Say, where was Harry Brewster today? Someone said he was sick or something.”
“Yes, he’s got the sleeping disease,” answered Jim gravely. “Had it ever since he got his berth in the State National. That’s why they call it a berth when you get a job in a bank. They give you a column of figures to add up in the morning and if you’re not asleep by half-past ten they fire you. About four they go around with a pole and jab it through the cages. If you don’t wake up then they put a blanket over you and lock you in. They say Harry’s the best little sleeper they’ve got. Wouldn’t wonder if they made him president pretty soon.”
“Oh, quit your kidding,” laughed Hal. “What is the matter with him, Jim?”
“Cold. Went to sleep on a New York draft yesterday.”
“Sure it wasn’t counting coins? You can catch gold that way, you know.”
“Yes, but it’s not so hard to check. Good-night, fellows.” Jim tramped off down a side street and Collins asked Wayne which way he went.
“I go down the next street,” was the answer.
“Boarding?”
“No, I—we keep house. About two miles out.”
“Oh! Well, see you again. Here’s my turn. Good-night.”