“Norman! Norman, old fellow!”
Storm’s head came up with a jerk, and he blinked in the flickering light.
“I—I must have dozed off,” he mumbled. “It’s funny, but I don’t think I ever felt so tired in my life.”
“Then go to bed, do! You are worn out, and sleep is just what you need,” urged George.
“And leave you with all this to do alone?”
“It won’t be as bad as it looks. When I finish picking out what we’ll need I can get it stowed away in the bags in no time.”
Storm hesitated, and once more a slang phrase came whimsically to his mind. Well, “let George do it,” if he wanted to take it upon himself. He was intoxicatingly sleepy, in a spirit of utter relaxation such as he had not known for many weary days. Oh, for one night untroubled by rankling, corroding thoughts and yet more hideous dreams! He felt that he could sleep at last, and nothing else mattered. No harm could come.
“All right, I think I will go to bed, then, if you don’t mind.” He dragged himself to his feet. “Your old room is all ready, George; the front guest one. Just turn in whenever you are ready, but be sure to put out the candles.”
“I will, old man.” George nodded from the floor where he sat sprawled, a fat bag braced between his knees. “If you want anything, just call. Good night, and try to get a good rest.”
“Good night,” Storm responded, and taking up a candle he left the library and went slowly up the stairs.