But the result was always the same—the heavy, hoarse breathing.
Satisfied that he might do anything without arousing his cousin, he returned to his own bed, slipped on his trousers, and sat down to think.
There was the bag of books on the top of his little chest of drawers, and he had only to take them out, lay them down, and after carefully pulling out the drawer, pack the bag full of linen, and add an extra suit. It would be a tight cram, but he would want the things, and they would prove very useful.
But there was a hitch here. All these things were new, his old were worn-out, and his uncle had paid for all these in spite of his aunt’s suggestion, that there were a good many of Sam’s old things that might be altered to fit.
He stumbled over this. They were not his; and at last, in a spirit of proud independence, he ignored his own services to his uncle, and stubbornly determined that he would take nothing but the clothes in which he stood.
“And some day I’ll send the money to pay for them,” he said proudly, half aloud.
“Gug—gug—gug—ghur-r-r-r,” came from his cousin’s bed as if in derision.
But Tom’s mind was made up, and undressing once more he lay down to think, but did not, for, quite satisfied now as to his plans, no sooner had his head touched the pillow than, utterly wearied out, he dropped asleep.
It seemed to him that he had only just closed his eyes, when, in a dreamy way, he heard the customary tapping at his door, followed by a growl from Sam, bidding Mary not make “that row.”
Then Tom was wide-awake, thinking of his over-night plans.