“Was I? Well, yes, I suppose I was; and I’m glad of it. But I have had a sensible sleep.”
“Well, so have I, but—”
“No, you haven’t. Mine was, for I didn’t get dreaming that I saw a baboon.”
“And I didn’t either,” whispered Dean angrily. “I was asleep, but I woke up feeling a soft hand going over my face.”
“Bah! You dreamt it.”
“I didn’t, I tell you! I could feel it as plain as could be; and then it moved away from me, and I could just make out by the starlight that it was passing its hand over your face. Didn’t you feel it?”
“No,” said Mark. “You can’t feel ghosts and dreams. They only seem.”
“Ghosts and dreams!” said Dean impetuously.
“Well, baboons, then—sleep baboons. Oh, I say, Dean, what’s coming to you? You used to be content with going to sleep like a top. But if you are going to begin having dreams like this I shall sleep under the waggon.”
“Oh, you obstinate mule! Who said anything about baboons?”