"
"Go it! Fire away! Farewell, vain world!" exclaimed the excited
John.--"Trade your soul off for a pair of ear-bobs and a
button-hook--a hank of jute hair and a box of lily-white! I've buried
not less than ten old chums this way, and here's another nominated for
the tomb."
"But you've got no _reason_ about you," began Bert,--"I want to"--
"And so do _I_ 'want to,'" broke in John, finally,--"I want to get
some sleep.--So 'register' and come to bed.--And lie up on edge, too,
when you _do_ come--'cause this old catafalque-of-a-bed is just about
as narrow as your views of single blessedness! Peace! Not another
word! Pile in! Pile in! I'm three-parts sick, anyhow, and I want
rest!" And very truly he spoke.
It was a bright morning when the slothful John was aroused by a long,
vociferous pounding on the door. He started up in bed to find himself
alone--the victim of his wrathful irony having evidently risen and
fled away while his pitiless tormentor slept--"Doubtless to at once
accomplish that nefarious intent as set forth by his unblushing
confession of last night," mused the miserable John. And he ground his
fingers in the corners of his swollen eyes, and leered grimly in the
glass at the feverish orbs, blood-shotten, blurred and aching.
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