Sleep—the lack of sleep. They never would have gotten to him but for the craving to sleep. He had gone into the town feeling as keen mentally as ever, and his keenness had been only superficial. He had sought the open without any definite campaign. Want of sleep. His flesh and bones had been crying out for sleep, and his brain stifling the call. Patience. They had had a little more than John Mathison.
To-night, however, he would satisfy the craving. There would be no more sleep-fumes or pistol-shots or turning door-knobs.
By one o'clock the car Mercutio was as silent as the tomb of Romeo's friend.
Tap, tap; pause; tap, tap.
Mathison was asleep, but as yet he had not conquered that subconscious alertness of the mind. The sound, light as it was, awoke him. The porter's signal. Mathison buried his head deeper into the pillow.
Tap, tap; pause; tap, tap.
"What's wanted?" he called, irritably.
There was no answer. The tapping was not repeated.
He was too drunk with sleep to get the real significance. He turned over and fell asleep again instantly. He came out of this leaden slumber at seven. The train was moving, having made up two hours in the makeshift schedule. The storm outside had lost but little of its vigor. He bathed and dressed and rang for the porter.