“Same here,” muttered the man, as Mark climbed to his resting-place, so heavily assailed by sleep that he was hardly conscious of his words.
Then all was silent but for the heavy breathing of the sleepers and an occasional stamp from one of the picketed ponies.
Chapter Fourteen.
A Pretty Dance.
It was not a feather-bed; there was neither bolster nor pillow; and a single blanket laid across three sacks of Indian corn did not counteract the hard nubbly feeling. But a couple more blankets drawn over the lad right up to his chin thoroughly kept off the crisp coolness of the air on the high plateau of a country where the sun was broiling by day. Youth, health, exercise and an open-air life did the rest to make that sleeping place a perfect Elysium.
Add to the above a long watch in the darkness, and it is not surprising that as Mark Roche stretched out his legs to the fullest extent as he lay upon his back, he uttered a low, long, soft “Hah–h–h!” and the next instant was fast asleep.
How long that lasted he could not tell, but he half awoke; better still, one may say he only one quarter awoke bodily; mentally he was so to speak soaked, saturated with sleep, and his waking was only into a kind of confusion out of which he could not rouse himself.
All he knew was that something was dreadfully wrong—when—how—where—he could not make out.