“My ole ’oman’s name’s Gipson,” continued the mate, in a dreamy voice, as though amid his dreams he was still following out the one train of thought which seemed to engross his mind during his waking hours.
“Ya, ya, ya, ya! Get up! Get up! Hal-l-o-o-o-o-o! Bow-avoav-wow! Ba-a-a-a-a!” and with yells and shouts like these, with cock-crows, with all the cries of a crowded barn-yard, the boys returned to their effort at rousing him.
“An’ ye’ll not find many of that name in this country!” said the mate, with a tone, to which he seemed struggling to give a sleepy emphasis.
Up rose the barn-yard cries again, mingled with yells, shrieks, bellowings, cat-calls, hoots, and roars.
“Come, come,” cried Bart, shaking his head violently. “Won’t you get up?”
“No, sir!” said the mate; but whether if referred to his dream, or was intended as a reply to Bart, did not very clearly appear. The boys began to despair, and at length, after further endeavors, they were compelled to give up. They accordingly returned to Mr. Long, and informed him of their utter failure.
Mr. Long’s eyes glared wildly.
“Very well!” said he, sternly, and with a dark frown. “Ve-e-ry well! I’ll see if I can’t wake him this time. I’ve been humbugged long enough; and if words are of no use, I’ll have to try what virtue there is in cold water.”
Saying this, he seized a pail, filled it at the well, and strode to the barn, followed by all the boys. Reaching the place, he advanced to the mate, and mercilessly emptied the entire contents full upon his head.
That succeeded.