I sat up in bed, hurriedly giving my companion a vicious kick of caution, as I explained to the doctor that "little Simpson walked and talked in his sleep;" at which "little Simpson," in a corner of the room, groaned audibly.
"Simpson, junior, what do you mean by walking in your sleep, sir?"
Simpson groaned again, and the doctor, thinking he was snoring, continued,—
"He eats too much; must diet him. A dose of brimstone and treacle (I felt Boston jump) in the morning will do him good—cooling. Remind me, Travers. By the way, sir, how comes it you are awake?"
"Please, sir, you woke me—awakened me, sir," I stammered.
"Hem," doubtfully. "Whom have you in bed with you—eh?" as Boston, rendered uncomfortable by his sticky face, had moved.
"With me, sir?" I murmured, vaguely.
"Yes, sir, with you. Come out, whoever it is!" roared Omega, without further parley.
But Boston remained still as a mouse.
Struck dumb with anger and astonishment, that a boy should have the impudence to stop in when he ordered him to come out, the doctor strode round to Charley's side, and laid hands on the miscreant to have him out by force; but, no sooner had he felt the viscous state of our hero, than he withdrew them precipitately, with the pious ejaculation,—