d turnings, coupled with
involuntary exclamations, as of a man murmuring in his dreams. One of
these, louder than the rest, at length startling, causes Woodley to
enquire what his comrade wants; and what is the matter with him.

"Oh, nothing," replies Clancy; "only that I can't sleep--that's all."

"Can't sleep! Wharfore can't ye? Sure ye oughter be able by this time.
Ye've had furteeg enuf to put you in the way o' slumberin' soun' as a
hummin' top."

"I can't to-night, Sime."

"Preehaps ye've swallered somethin', as don't sit well on your stummuk!
Or, it may be, the klimat o' this hyar destrict. Sartin it do feel a
leetle dampish, 'count o' the river fog; tho', as a general thing, the
San Sabre bottom air 'counted one o' the healthiest spots in Texas.
S'pose ye take a pull out o' this ole gourd o' myen. It's the best
Monongaheely, an' for a seedimentary o' the narves thar ain't it's
eequal to be foun' in any drug-shop. I'll bet my bottom dollar on thet.
Take a suck, Charley, and see what it'll do for ye."

"It would have no effect. I know it wouldn't. It isn't nervousness
that keeps me awake--something quite different."

"Oh!" grunts the old hunter, in a tone that tells of comprehension.
"Something quite diff'rent? I reck'n I kin guess what thet somethin'
air--the same as keeps other young fellurs awake--thinkin' o' thar
sweethearts. Once't in the arms o' Morpheous, ye'll forgit all about
your gurl. Foller my deevice; put some o' this physic inside yur skin,
an' you'll be asleep in the shakin' o' a goat's tail."

The dialogue comes to a close by Clancy taking the prescribed physic.

After which he wraps his blanket around him, and once more essays to
sleep.

As before, he is unsuccessful. Although for a while tranquil and
courting slumber, it will not come. He again tosses about; and at
length rises to his feet, his hound starting up at the same time.

Woodley, once more awakened, perceives that the potion has failed of
effect, and counsels his trying it again.

"No," objects Clancy; "'tis no use. The strongest soporific in the
world wouldn't give me sleep this night. I tell you, Sime, I have a
fear upon me."

"Fear o' what?"

"_That we'll be too late_."

The last words, spoken solemnly, tell of apprehension keenly felt--
whether false, or prophetic.

"That air's all nonsense," rejoins Woodley, wishing to reason his
comrade out of what he deems an idle fancy. "The height o' nonsense.