“Nearly dropped and smashed his glass,” he said petulantly, and, laying down his rifle, he closed the little lorgnette slowly and carefully with half-numbed fingers, which fumbled about the instrument feebly.
“He’d ha’—he’d ha’—fine—tongue-thrashing when he woke—foun’ glass—smashed.”
Gedge sank upon his knees and bent over the sleeper, fumbling for the strap and case to replace the glass.
“Where ha’ you got to?” he muttered. “What yer swinging about half a mile away for? Ah! that’s got yer,” he went on, aiming at the case with a strange fixity of expression. “Now then—the lid—the lid—and the strap through the buckle, and the buckle—done it—me go to sleep—on dooty, Sergeant? Not me!—I—I—ha-h-h!”
Poor Gedge was only human, and his drowsy head sank across Bracy’s breast, so wrapped in sleep that the firing of a rifle by his ear would hardly have roused him up.
Chapter Thirty Three.
Like a Dying Dog.
The sun was rapidly going down towards the western peaks, which stood out dark and clear against the golden orange sky, when Gedge opened his eyes and began to stare in a vacant way at a little peculiarly shaded brown leather case which rose and fell in regular motion a few inches from his nose. He watched it for some minutes, feeling very comfortable the while, for his pillow was warm; though it seemed strange to him that it should move gently up and down. But he grew more wakeful a minute later, and told himself that he knew why it was. He and two London companions had made up their minds to tramp down into Kent for a holiday, and to go hop-picking, and they slept under haystacks, in barns, or in the shade of trees; and at such times as the nights were cool and they had no covering they huddled together to get warm, taking in turns that one of the party should lie crosswise and play pillow for the benefit of his two companions.