In the assistant engineer’s bungalow Spurstow and Hummil smoked the pipe of silence together, each narrowly watching the other.  The capacity of a bachelor’s establishment is as elastic as its arrangements are simple.  A servant cleared away the dining-room table, brought in a couple of rude native bedsteads made of tape strung on a light wood frame, flung a square of cool Calcutta matting over each, set them side by side, pinned two towels to the punkah so that their fringes should just sweep clear of the sleepers’ nose and mouth, and announced that the couches were ready.

The men flung themselves down, ordering the punkah-coolies by all the powers of Hell to pull.  Every door and window was shut, for the outside air was that of an oven.  The atmosphere within was only 104 degrees, as the thermometer bore witness, and heavy with the foul smell of badly-trimmed kerosene lamps; and this stench, combined with that of native tobacco, baked brick, and dried earth, sends the heart of many a strong man down to his boots, for it is the smell of the Great Indian Empire when she turns herself for six months into a house of torment.  Spurstow packed his pillows craftily so that he reclined rather than lay, his head at a safe elevation above his feet.  It is not good to sleep on a low pillow in the hot weather if you happen to be of thick-necked build, for you may pass with lively snores and gugglings from natural sleep into the deep slumber of heat-apoplexy.

‘Pack your pillows,’ said the doctor sharply, as he saw Hummil preparing to lie down at full length.

The night-light was trimmed; the shadow of the punkah wavered across the room, and the ‘flick’ of the punkah-towel and the soft whine of the rope through the wall-hole followed it.  Then the punkah flagged, almost ceased.  The sweat poured from Spurstow’s brow.  Should he go out and harangue the coolie?  It started forward again with a savage jerk, and a pin came out of the towels.  When this was replaced, a tomtom in the coolie-lines began to beat with the steady throb of a swollen artery inside some brain-fevered skull.  Spurstow turned on his side and swore gently.  There was no movement on Hummil’s part.  The man had composed himself as rigidly as a corpse, his hands clinched at his sides.  The respiration was too hurried for any suspicion of sleep.  Spurstow looked at the set face.  The jaws were clinched, and there was a pucker round the quivering eyelids.

‘He’s holding himself as tightly as ever he can,’ thought Spurstow.  ‘What in the world is the matter with him?—­Hummil!’

‘Yes,’ in a thick constrained voice.

‘Can’t you get to sleep?’

‘No.’

’Head hot?  ‘Throat feeling bulgy? or how?’

‘Neither, thanks.  I don’t sleep much, you know.’

‘Feel pretty bad?’

’Pretty bad, thanks.  There is a tomtom outside, isn’t there?  I thought it was my head at first....  Oh, Spurstow, for pity’s sake give me something that will put me asleep,—­sound asleep,—­if it’s only for six hours!’ He sprang up, trembling from head to foot.  ’I haven’t been able to sleep naturally for days, and I can’t stand it!—­I can’t stand it!’