“You, Master Mark. You are sleepy. ’Tarn’t far, now. Fresh air’ll soon rouse you.”
There was no reply, and as the boy glanced back he could see that his companion was beginning to reel about like a drunken man, and that his eyes had a peculiar dull, fixed look.
The next minute the lids drooped, and he walked on as if that which he had said was quite true—that all was fast asleep but the legs, which went on automatically, and supported their load.
“With a fal, lal-lal, lal-lalla, lalla, la!” yelled Dummy, not unmusically; and it had its effect, for Mark sprang at him, and caught him by the shoulder.
“What was that?” he cried excitedly.
“On’y me singing, Master Mark. Soon be out now.”
“That’s what you keep on saying,” cried the lad, pettishly. “I don’t believe we’re going right. You’ve taken a wrong turning by mistake. Here, I can’t go any farther, Dummy. I must lie down and go to sleep again. It’s horrible to keep on like this. I know I shall fall.”
“You do, and I’ll stick a pin in you,” said the boy roughly.
“What!”
“I’m not going to have you fall asleep again. Come, rouse up, Master Mark; I’m ashamed of you. For two pins I’d hit you over the head.”