"Ugh! These clothes are all wet and cold, and—it feels like blood!"
"Nothin' but the mornin' dew."
"It's perspiration."
"Well, a little sweat won't hurt you."
"Nasty word." Speed yawned in turn. "Perspiration! I can't wear wet clothes," and would have crept back into his bed.
This time Glass deposited him upon a stool beside the table, and then lighted a candle, by the sickly glare of which he selected a pair of running-shoes.
"Why didn't you leave me alone?" grumbled the younger man. "The only pleasure I get is in sleep—I forget things then."
"Yes," retorted the former, sarcastically, "and you also seem to forget that these are our last days among the living. Saturday the big thing comes off."
"Forget! I dreamed about it!" The boy sighed heavily. It was the hour in which hope reaches its lowest ebb and vitality is weakest. He was very cold and very miserable.
"You ain't got no edge on me," the other acknowledged, mournfully. "I'm too young to die, and that's a bet."