Without a word, Jim changed his mind and went straight back to his hay bed on the stable floor; and this time he tumbled into a deep sleep.
Phil must have dozed off too, for when he awoke the light of an Autumn sun was streaming through a dirty window on to his face.
He started up in consternation, but his fears were 137 soon allayed for Jim Langford was still sleeping peacefully, dead to the world, with an upturned face tranquil and unlined, and innocent-looking as a baby boy’s.
The work horses in their stalls were becoming restless. Phil examined his watch. It was six o’clock.
He knew that the teamster would soon be on his job getting his beasts ready for their day’s work, so he roused Langford, who sat up in a semi-stupor, licking his lips with a dry, rough tongue.
He gazed at Phil for a while. Phil smiled in good humour.
“Man, but I’m a rotter!” said Jim.
“Of course you are!” agreed Phil. “We’re both more or less rotters.”
“But that son of a lobster McGregor knocked you cold,” he pursued, starting in where he had left off several days before.
“He did, Jim, and threw me through the window to wind up with.”