There was a grunt very much like a snore.
“Well, of all the old dormice!” muttered Ned. “Chris, you must get up.”
“Shan’t!”
“But you’ve been asleep twenty-four hours.”
“Look here, stupid,” grumbled Chris, without stirring, “if you want to tell a big fib you should always make it as big as you can, or else people won’t believe you. Say twenty-four days.”
“Why, you unbelieving old humbug! It’s the truth. You ate till I was ashamed of you, and then you lay down to sleep about this time yesterday, and here you are now as sleepy as ever. If you don’t get up I’ll go and tell the doctor you must be ill.”
Chris started up into a sitting posture and uttered a cry.
“Oh! I say!—Ugh! I am stiff. I can’t hardly move.—What’s the matter with me?”
“Slept till you’ve turned stiff as a log,” cried Ned. “Twenty-four hours right off.”
“I say, that isn’t true, is it?”