Chapter XI

A NIGHT SURPRISE.

oodels and Milburd knock at my door at 2.30 a.m., after I've been asleep two hours, and wake me up to tell me that they had thought of a Pleasure of Poverty: it was, Milburd said,

To think that you can't be worse off, while you hope that others may.

I say . . “Oh . . . don't bother—I mean—yes—capital . . . go to . . . bed,” and turning round, try to sleep again.

The Deputation thanks me and withdraws.

“What an idiotic thing to do,” I say to myself . . . . “What a foolish thing” . . . . getting more wakeful . . . “What a cruel thing . . . . Hang it! it's positively selfish . . . it's” . . . turning for the fifth time, and my pillow becoming as hot as a blister . . . “Confound Boodels . . . and Milburd . . . it's all his doing, I know” . . . sitting up in bed.

It occurs to me that counting one hundred and forty backwards, and then getting out and drinking a glass of water, is a capital way of inducing sleep . . .

Odd, but in Milburd and Boodels coming to rouse me at this time, I find a solution to the other question that we had occupied part of our morning in discussing.

What circumstance justifies loss of patience?

Why, loss of sleep.

SOFT REPOSE.