WALLY awoke in the early dawn, under the stimulus of a damp sponge pressed firmly against his face.
“Beast!” he said sleepily, and hit out in a wild fashion which had, very naturally, no effect. He opened his eyes, to see Jim, in his pyjamas, grinning at him over the end of the bed.
“Of all the restless animals!” said the injured Mr. Meadows. “Why ever can’t you stay peaceably in bed on the rare occasion that you’ve got one to stay in—instead of a creaking shelf? There can’t be anything wrong, or you wouldn’t have a grin like a Cheshire cat!”
“There is not,” said his chum, affably. “Only I couldn’t sleep, and it seemed such a pity for you to be slumbering. Let’s get up.”
“Get up! Whatever for?”
“Oh, just to be up! It’s too hot to be in bed—and everything out of doors looks so jolly. I’ve been out on the balcony for ever so long.”
“Go to Jericho!” said Mr. Meadows, with finality, and turned over to slumber anew. This laudable desire was frustrated by the gradual withdrawal of all bedclothes; then, as the victim seemed resigned to sleeping on the bare mattress, Jim rolled him up in it and deposited him head-first on the floor. At this point slumber left the scene finally, and the outraged Wally gave himself up to vengeance.
Calmness was restored a little later, and the dishevelled combatants regarded each other.
“You hit like the kick of a pony,” said Jim, with respect, rubbing his shoulder. “Isn’t it ripping to have space to move again? People of our size aren’t meant for ship’s cabins.”
“I was meant for bed,” said Wally, bestowing an affectionate glance on that once placid retreat. “And you are meant for the gallows—and some day you’ll get there! Now, what do you want to do? I’m awake.”