Some few minutes after the lights were out, Buck was brought back from the shadowy realm of sleep by Whitby's voice coming from the other room. "I say, Peters, did you keep those calculations?"
"Yes," answered Buck. "Why?"
"There 's the lumber, you know. It might be a good idea to have McAllister send it on."
"Shore would. You tell him."
"I will," promised Whitby. A few seconds later he broke out again: "Do you know, Buck, the railroad companies of America are cheerful beggars. They take your luggage and then play ducks and drakes with it, in a very idiotic way. Why, mine was lost for two weeks and I was in a very devil of a fix. So it would not be a bad idea, you know, if I tell your partner to send a man with the consignment. He can sit on the barrels and see that they are n't placed on a siding to prove the theory that loss of movement results in inertia. Am I right?"
Buck laughed from his heart. "If there 's anything you don't think of make a note of it an' let me see it," he commended.
"What a rummy remark. I say, how—ha! ha!" and Whitby's bunk creaked to his mirth. "That's rather a neat one, you know! I did n't know you were Irish, Peters, blessed if I did! I must tell that to your man Friday—it will keep the bally ass combing his frowsy locks for a week."
Buck had one foot on the Slumberland boundary when he heard the voice again, seeming to have travelled a long distance: "And I believe I should be rewarded for my brilliancy. I 'll ask your partner to send some brandy and a box of good cigars with the rest of it as my fee. I 'll have to learn to smoke all over again," he complained drowsily. A raucous snore bounced off the partition and Whitby opened his eyes for a moment: "My word, if Friday could only cook as well as he snores!"
CHAPTER XIII
PUNCTUATION AS A FINE ART