“Oh!” grunts the old hunter, in a tone that tells of comprehension. “Something quite diff’rent? I reck’n I kin guess what thet somethin’ air—the same as keeps other young fellurs awake—thinkin’ o’ thar sweethearts. Once’t in the arms o’ Morpheous, ye’ll forgit all about your gurl. Foller my deevice; put some o’ this physic inside yur skin, an’ you’ll be asleep in the shakin’ o’ a goat’s tail.”
The dialogue comes to a close by Clancy taking the prescribed physic.
After which he wraps his blanket around him, and once more essays to sleep.
As before, he is unsuccessful. Although for a while tranquil and courting slumber, it will not come. He again tosses about; and at length rises to his feet, his hound starting up at the same time.
Woodley, once more awakened, perceives that the potion has failed of effect, and counsels his trying it again.
“No,” objects Clancy; “’tis no use. The strongest soporific in the world wouldn’t give me sleep this night. I tell you, Sime, I have a fear upon me.”
“Fear o’ what?”
“That we’ll be too late.”
The last words, spoken solemnly, tell of apprehension keenly felt—whether false, or prophetic.
“That air’s all nonsense,” rejoins Woodley, wishing to reason his comrade out of what he deems an idle fancy. “The height o’ nonsense. Wheesh!”