‘Poor old chap!’

’That’s no use.  Give me something to make me sleep.  I tell you I’m nearly mad.  I don’t know what I say half my time.  For three weeks I’ve had to think and spell out every word that has come through my lips before I dared say it.  Isn’t that enough to drive a man mad?  I can’t see things correctly now, and I’ve lost my sense of touch.  My skin aches—­my skin aches!  Make me sleep.  Oh, Spurstow, for the love of God make me sleep sound.  It isn’t enough merely to let me dream.  Let me sleep!’

’All right, old man, all right.  Go slow; you aren’t half as bad as you think.’

The flood-gates of reserve once broken, Hummil was clinging to him like a frightened child.  ‘You’re pinching my arm to pieces.’

’I’ll break your neck if you don’t do something for me.  No, I didn’t mean that.  Don’t be angry, old fellow.’  He wiped the sweat off himself as he fought to regain composure.  ’I’m a bit restless and off my oats, and perhaps you could recommend some sort of sleeping mixture,—­bromide of potassium.’

’Bromide of skittles!  Why didn’t you tell me this before?  Let go of my arm, and I’ll see if there’s anything in my cigarette-case to suit your complaint.’  Spurstow hunted among his day-clothes, turned up the lamp, opened a little silver cigarette-case, and advanced on the expectant Hummil with the daintiest of fairy squirts.

‘The last appeal of civilisation,’ said he, ’and a thing I hate to use.  Hold out your arm.  Well, your sleeplessness hasn’t ruined your muscle; and what a thick hide it is!  Might as well inject a buffalo subcutaneously.  Now in a few minutes the morphia will begin working.  Lie down and wait.’

A smile of unalloyed and idiotic delight began to creep over Hummil’s face.  ‘I think,’ he whispered,—­’I think I’m going off now.  Gad! it’s positively heavenly!  Spurstow, you must give me that case to keep; you—­’ The voice ceased as the head fell back.

‘Not for a good deal,’ said Spurstow to the unconscious form.  ’And now, my friend, sleeplessness of your kind being very apt to relax the moral fibre in little matters of life and death, I’ll just take the liberty of spiking your guns.’

He paddled into Hummil’s saddle-room in his bare feet and uncased a twelve-bore rifle, an express, and a revolver.  Of the first he unscrewed the nipples and hid them in the bottom of a saddlery-case; of the second he abstracted the lever, kicking it behind a big wardrobe.  The third he merely opened, and knocked the doll-head bolt of the grip up with the heel of a riding-boot.

‘That’s settled,’ he said, as he shook the sweat off his hands.  ’These little precautions will at least give you time to turn.  You have too much sympathy with gun-room accidents.’

And as he rose from his knees, the thick muffled voice of Hummil cried in the doorway, ‘You fool!’

Such tones they use who speak in the lucid intervals of delirium to their friends a little before they die.