“Oh, I sha’n’t lie here any longer,” said Saxe to himself. “I say!” he cried: “Mr Dale! Ahoy! It’s to-morrow morning. Oh, what a noddle I am!” he muttered. “It’s broad daylight, Mr Dale. Are you coming for a dip?”
No answer.
“I say, Mr Dale! Time to get up.”
All was silent, and Saxe raised himself on his elbow and peered through the darkness at the heap of hay beside him.
“He must have been tired last night,” he muttered, “and old Melk too. I say, Mr Dale! do you know what you say to me sometimes?”
“No: that he doesn’t,” thought Saxe. “He is sleeping fast, and if I wake him he’ll turn rusty. I don’t care. Here—hi! Mr Dale. Breakfast!”
Still no reply.
“Oh, I must rouse him,” cried Saxe, and, springing up, he went to where his companion slept, and then gave the hay an angry kick.
“What a shame!” he cried. “I do call that shabby. They’ve been up ever so long, and gone somewhere without me. It’s too bad!”
He hurried out of the great loft-like place, and encountered the sour-looking man Pierre.