“I know,” he said. “You’re afraid that I’d fall asleep later on, and we’d miss the chance.”
“Well,—well,” stammered Harvey, “you are an awful sound sleeper when you get a-going, you know. I didn’t mean anything—”
“You’re all right,” exclaimed Tom Edwards, softly, but with heartiness. “You turn in. Let me have your watch. I’ll wake you, say, at eleven.”
Jack Harvey’s nerves were good, and he was not one to worry over coming events. He turned in, and, in ten minutes, was sound asleep. Tom Edwards, sitting uncomfortably in his bunk, counted the minutes as they dragged away, drearily. It was a lonesome vigil, with only the sleeping crew for company. He started up now and again, as some sound in the night outside seemed to his active fancy a warning of the returning skiff.
Ten o’clock came, and then eleven; he arose and awakened Harvey.
“Too bad, old chap,” he said, “but it’s your turn.”
Harvey roused and turned out, sleepily.
“Tom,” he said, “I had the queerest dream. I dreamed we were chasing that fellow, Jenkins, through miles of swamps, and every time we’d get near him, he’d turn into Henry Burns and laugh at us. Then we’d see him again a little way ahead.”
“You’re thinking of that chap you thought you saw through the telescope, eh,” suggested Tom Edwards.
“He’s on my mind sure enough,” replied Harvey. “I can’t quite make it out, though, whether I saw him or not.”