At five o’clock they were awakened by the voice of Mr. Dodds. It was a broken, disconnected sort of voice at first, like to that of a man talking in his sleep; but as Mr. Dodds’ head cleared his ideas cleared with it, and in strong, forcible language straight from the heart he consigned the eyes and limbs of some person or persons unknown to every variety of torment, after which, in a voice broken with emotion, he addressed himself in terms of heart-breaking sympathy.
“Shut up, Sam,” said Harry in a sleepy voice. “Why can’t you go to sleep?”
“Sleep be ’anged,” said Mr. Dodds tearfully. “I’ve lorst all my money.”
“You’re dreamin’,” said Harry lightly; “pinch yourself.”
Mr. Dodds, who had a little breath left and a few words still comparatively fresh, bestowed them upon him.
“I tell you you haven’t lorst it,” said Harry. “Don’t you remember giving it to that red-’aired woman with a baby?”
“WOT?” said the astounded Mr. Dodds.
“You give it to ’er an’ told ’er to buy the baby a bun with it,” continued the veracious Mr. Pilchard.
“Told ’er to buy the baby a bun with it?” repeated Mr. Dodds in a dazed voice. “Told ’er to—— Wot did you let me do it for? Wot was all you chaps standin’ by an’ doin’ to let me go an’ do it for?”
“We did arsk you not to,” said Steve, joining in the conversation.