An hour or two passed, when Flash Jack directed attention to my long friend, who, since the medicine boy left, had not been noticed till now. With eyes closed, he was lying behind the stocks, and Jack was lifting his arm and letting it fall as if life were extinct. On running up with the rest, I at once connected the phenomenon with the mysterious vial. Searching his pocket, I found it, and holding it up, it proved to be laudanum. Flash Jack, snatching it from my hand in a rapture, quickly informed all present what it was; and with much glee, proposed a nap for the company. Some of them not comprehending him exactly, the apparently defunct Long Ghost—who lay so still that I a little suspected the genuineness of his sleep—was rolled about as an illustration of the virtues of the vial’s contents. The idea tickled everybody mightily; and throwing themselves down, the magic draught was passed from hand to hand. Thinking that, as a matter of course, they must at once become insensible, each man, upon taking his sip, fell back, and closed his eyes.
There was little fear of the result, since the narcotic was equally distributed. But, curious to see how it would operate, I raised myself gently after a while, and looked around. It was about noon, and perfectly still; and as we all daily took the siesta, I was not much surprised to find everyone quiet. Still, in one or two instances, I thought I detected a little peeping.
Presently, I heard a footstep, and saw Doctor Johnson approaching.
And perplexed enough did he look at the sight of his prostrate file of patients, plunged, apparently, in such unaccountable slumbers.
“Daniel,” he cried, at last, punching in the side with his cane the individual thus designated—“Daniel, my good fellow, get up! do you hear?”
But Black Dan was immovable; and he poked the next sleeper.
“Joseph, Joseph! come, wake up! it’s me, Doctor Johnson.”
But Jingling Joe, with mouth open, and eyes shut, was not to be started.
“Bless my soul!” he exclaimed, with uplifted hands and cane, “what’s got into ’em? I say, men”—he shouted, running up and down—“come to life, men! what under the sun’s the matter with you?” and he struck the stocks, and bawled with increased vigour.
At last he paused, folded his hands over the head of his cane, and steadfastly gazed upon us. The notes of the nasal orchestra were rising and falling upon his ear, and a new idea suggested itself.