When he had finished he hurried to the spot where the party was in the habit of assembling around the camp-fire. He found there some feebly burning logs, and Mr. Clyde, who sat alone, smoking his pipe.
“What is the matter?” asked the bishop. “Where are all our friends?”
“‘WHERE ARE ALL OUR FRIENDS?’”
“I suppose they are all in bed,” said Clyde, “with the bedclothes pulled over their heads—that is, except one, and I suspect she is talking in her sleep. They were all here as usual, and Mr. Archibald thought he would break the spell by telling a fishing story. He told me he was going to try to speak against time; but it wasn’t of any use. She just slid into the middle of his remarks as a duck slides into the water, and then she began an oration. I really believe she did not know that any one else was talking.”
“That may have been the case,” said the bishop; “she has a wonderful power of self-concentration.”
“Very true,” said Clyde, “and this time she concentrated herself so much upon herself that the rest of us got away, one by one, and when all the others had gone she went. Then, when I found she really had gone, I came back. By-the-way, bishop,” he continued, “there is something I would like to do, and I want you to help me.”
“Name it,” said the other.