“I'm going to stay for a while, Labe,” he said. “I'm not a bit sleepy, really. Let's have a smoke and talk together. That is, of course, unless you want to go to bed.”
Mr. Keeler smiled his twisted smile. “I ain't crazy to,” he said. “The way I feel now I'd get to sleep about week after next. But I hadn't ought to keep you up, Al.”
“Rubbish! I'm not sleepy, I tell you. Sit down. Have a cigar. Now what shall we talk about? How would books do? What have you been reading lately, Labe?”
They smoked and talked books until nearly two. Then Laban insisted upon his guest departing. “I'm all right, Al” he declared, earnestly. “I am honest—yes, yes, I am. I'll go to sleep like a lamb, yes indeed.”
“You'll be at the office in the morning, won't you, Labe?”
The little bookkeeper nodded. “I'll be there,” he said. “Got to answer roll call the first mornin' after enlistment. Yes, yes. I'll be there, Al.”
He was there, but he did not look as if his indulgence in the lamb-like sleep had been excessive. He was so pale and haggard that his assistant was alarmed.
“You're not sick, are you, Labe?” he asked, anxiously. Laban shook his head.
“No,” he said. “No, I ain't sick. Been doin' picket duty up and down the room since half past three, that's all. Um-hm, that's all. Say, Al, if General what's-his-name—er—von Hindenburg—is any harder scrapper than old Field Marshal Barleycorn he's a pretty tough one. Say, Al, you didn't say anything about—about my—er—enlistin' to Cap'n Lote, did you? I meant to ask you not to.”
“I didn't, Labe. I thought you might want it kept a secret.”