So, in a hazy way, thought Lewis Stoutley when he felt a hand laid on his shoulder, and heard the voice of Antoine Grennon.
“Monsieur! Monsieur!” said the guide.
“G–t—long. D–n borer me,” murmured Lewis, in tones so sleepy that the dash of crossness was barely perceptible.
“It is time to rise, sir,” persisted Antoine.
“’Mposs’ble—’v jus’ b’n two min’ts sl–e—”
A profound sigh formed an eloquent peroration to the sentence.
A loud laugh from his companions, who were already up and getting ready, did more than the guide’s powers of suasion to arouse the heavy sleeper. He started to a sitting posture, stared with imbecile surprise at the candle which dimly lighted the cabin, and yawned vociferously.
“What a sleeper you are, Lewie!” said Lawrence, with a laugh, as, on his knees before the fire, he busied himself in preparing coffee for the party.
“And such a growler, too, when any one touches you,” observed Slingsby, buttoning on his leggings.
“Sleeper! growler!” groaned Lewis, “you’ve only given me five minutes in which to sleep or growl.”