But at last, after a false alarm of the Princess coming, the night fell, and with a beating heart Hilton set about filling his pockets and a handkerchief with provisions for the journey, Chumbley seeming all the while to be plunged into a state of lethargy.
“Come, Chum,” whispered Hilton, at last, “be stirring, man.”
“Heaps of time yet, my boy,” replied the other. “Lie down and have a nap.”
“Will nothing stir you?” whispered Hilton, wrathfully. “Good Heavens, man, rouse yourself!”
“Shan’t. I’m resting. There’s heaps to do when we start, and I want to be fresh. Lie down.”
“Hang it, don’t speak as if I were a dog,” cried Hilton, sharply.
“Have the goodness to lie down and rest yourself, my dear boy,” said Chumbley in a polite drawl. “It is of no use for us to attempt to stir till the fellows are all asleep, so save yourself up.”
Hilton obeyed, lying down upon the matting, and in spite of his excitement, he felt a strangely-delicious drowsy sensation stealing over him, to which he yielded, and the next moment—so it seemed to him—Chumbley laid a great hand over his lips, and whispered:
“Time’s up!”
He rose to his knees, to find that it was intensely dark, and saving an occasional howl from the forest, all was perfectly still.