It had been raining almost constantly. After traveling all night, drenched to the skin and weak with long hunger and exposure, I felt that I could not go further without rest and warmth. So, just before daylight, we crept into a thatched little barn where, in one secluded corner, there was some straw.
“Say, chum!” said Gordon, “this is right comfortable.”
“Yes,” I replied petulantly, “but ain’t it ‘right’ dangerous?”
“We can’t have everything, Yank,” he replied. “We’ve got to chance it once in a while.”
“Yes,” I assented, “but I’m afraid I’m all in. I’m all of a shiver.”
After looking at my wound, my chum said, “That arm is right bad; and I don’t like them shivers you are having. If we don’t get into God’s country pretty soon, I reckon we shall have to do something desperate to get that arm fixed.”
He covered me over with his coat, and heaped straw on top of that, and then after a while, asked anxiously, “Getting over them shivers?”
“Yes,” I replied, “I am getting comfortable and warmer than I have been for a good while. Better take your coat.”
“That’s good!” he said with a relieved expression. “Never mind about the coat. I was afraid that them shivers meant something more than cold.”
I had dropped into the dreamless sleep of exhaustion when I was awakened by a sharp punch, and the rustling of the straw. Looking up, I saw an old man with a pitchfork in one hand, staring down upon me with eyes big with surprise and inquiry.