“Me? Why, certainly.”
“All right, then. I 'll go around and take the boy's place, so he can rest a bit. Keep a close watch. So long.”
“So long.”
The special agent went on around his circle, and found Pink near the fence. “I 'll be here for a while, Harper. You'd better try to get some sleep.”
“Me—sleep?”
“Take your chance while you have it.”
“Moses and the bulrushers! You don't think I could sleep now?”
“Just as you like.”
To the three watchers there seemed to be a breakdown somewhere on the line that leads to dawn. The hours dragged until they stopped short. All the real things of this world, cities and schooners and houses on stilts and long reaches of blue water, had slipped back into the dim land of dreams. Nothing was real but the brooding forest, the rank weeds with their tale of desolation, the sand—sand—sand. Even Beveridge, sitting on his log, gave way. At each sound from the forest,—a crackle or a rustle,—he started like a nervous woman. Chilled by the night air and his wet clothes, he shivered until his teeth rattled.
A husky, plaintive voice rose into the night, singing. It came from Harper's post near the stump fence.=