“Do you hear me, boy? It's time to stop this Indian ghost-dance business. There's no sense in breaking an old man's rest. Get to bed.”
The infirmarian was fully persuaded that the whole affair was only a practical joke, such as even sick boys, or those, at least, who sometimes get passed into the infirmary on the plea of sickness, are not always above playing. Seeing that Henning did not move or pay any attention to his words, the infirmarian took hold of his shoulders and gave him a vigorous shaking. This operation had the effect of bringing the distracted boy down to the knowledge of mundane things at once.
“Eh! oh, ah,” he said in a bewildered, sheepish way. “I've made—a horrible—discovery,”
“You'll make another very unpleasant one in the morning if you don't get into bed at once. Don't cause any more disturbance.”
Without another word Henning went back to his room, and softly closed the door. He did not get into bed, but continued his ruminations.
“Andrew! Andrew,” he moaned, “I did not think it would come to this,”
He dropped his head on the window-sill and thought for a long, long time. It was in some degree a contest between self-interest and family pride. It was a long struggle, and the result of these cogitations he announced to himself as he threw the blanket from his shoulders across the bed. They were comprised in two short sentences:
“I must keep silence! I will keep silence,”
The decision may have been fanciful, or it may have been heroic. We shall see later. It led him into complications, the nature of which he little dreamed.