“Couldn’t sleep; to try in such a haunted place would be to be ‘spelled’—”
“Pierre Ricord! For a fellow that’s so smart at some things, you are the biggest dunce I know, in others. Haven’t we slept like lords ever since we struck this camp? I’m going to make my bed up again and turn in. I advise you to do the same.”
Adrian tossed the branches aside, then rearranged them, lapping the soft ends over the hard ones in an orderly row which would have pleased a housewife. Thus freshened, his odorous mattress was as good as new, and stretching himself upon it he immediately went to sleep.
Pierre fully intended to keep awake, but fatigue and loneliness prevailed, and five minutes later he had crept close to Adrian’s side.
The sunshine on his face and the sound of a knife cutting wood awoke him; and there was Adrian whittling away at a broad slab of cedar, smiling and jeering, and in the best of spirits, despite his rather solemn occupation.
“For a fellow who wouldn’t sleep, you’ve done pretty well. See—I’ve caught a fish and set it cooking. I’ve picked a pile of berries, and have nearly finished this headstone. Added another accomplishment to my many—monument-maker. But I’m wrong to laugh over that, though the poor unknown to whom it belongs would be grateful to me, I’ve no doubt. Lend a hand, will you?”
But nothing would induce Pierre to engage in any such business. Nor would he touch his breakfast while Adrian’s knife was busy. He sat apart, looking anywhere rather than toward his mate, and talking over his shoulder to him in a strangely subdued voice.
“Adrian.”
“Well?”
“Most done?”