It’s the natural, original sin that is born in him that makes him do things like that.
The packing was done at 12.50; and Harris sat on the big hamper, and said he hoped nothing would be found broken.
George said that if anything was broken it was broken, which reflection seemed to comfort him.
He also said he was ready for bed.
We were all ready for bed.
Harris was to sleep with us that night, and we went upstairs.
We tossed for beds, and Harris had to sleep with me.
He said: “Do you prefer the inside or the outside, J.?”
I said I generally preferred to sleep inside a bed.
Harris said it was old.
George said:
“What time shall I wake you fellows?”
Harris said: “Seven.”
I said: “No—six,” because I wanted to write some letters.
Harris and I had a bit of a row over it, but at last split the difference, and said half-past six.
“Wake us at 6.30, George,” we said.
George made no answer, and we found, on going over, that he had been asleep for some time; so we placed the bath where he could tumble into it on getting out in the morning, and went to bed ourselves. Luggage with dog on top
CHAPTER V.
Mrs. P. arouses us.—George, the sluggard.—The “weather forecast” swindle.—Our luggage.—Depravity of the small boy.—The people gather round us.—We drive off in great style, and arrive at Waterloo.—Innocence of South Western Officials concerning such worldly things as trains.—We are afloat, afloat in an open boat.
Mrs. PoppetsIt was Mrs. Poppets that woke me up next morning.
She said:
“Do you know that it’s nearly nine o’clock, sir?”
“Nine o’ what?” I cried, starting up.
“Nine o’clock,” she replied, through the keyhole.
“I thought you was a-oversleeping yourselves.”
I woke Harris, and told him.
He said:
“I thought you wanted to get up at six?”
“So I did,” I answered; “why didn’t you wake me?”
“How could I wake you, when you didn’t wake me?” he retorted.
“Now we shan’t get on the water till after twelve.
I wonder you take the trouble to get up at all.”
“Um,” I replied, “lucky for you that I do.
If I hadn’t woke you, you’d have lain there for the whole fortnight.”
George snoringWe snarled at one another in this strain for the next few minutes, when we were interrupted by a defiant snore from George.
It reminded us, for the first time since our being called, of his existence.
There he lay—the man who had wanted to know what time he should wake us—on his back, with his mouth wide open, and his knees stuck up.
I don’t know why it should be, I am sure; but the sight of another man asleep in bed when I am up, maddens me.
It seems to me so shocking to see the precious hours of a man’s life—the priceless moments that will never come back to him again—being wasted in mere brutish sleep.
There was George, throwing away in hideous sloth the inestimable gift of time; his valuable life, every second of which he would have to account for hereafter, passing away from him, unused.
He might have been up stuffing himself with eggs and bacon, irritating the dog, or flirting with the slavey, instead of sprawling there, sunk in soul-clogging oblivion.
It was a terrible thought.
Harris and I appeared to be struck by it at the same instant.
We determined to save him, and, in this noble resolve, our own dispute was forgotten.
We flew across and slung the clothes off him, and Harris landed him one with a slipper, and I shouted in his ear, and he awoke.
“Wasermarrer?” he observed, sitting up.
“Get up, you fat-headed chunk!” roared Harris.
“It’s quarter to ten.”
“What!” he shrieked, jumping out of bed into the bath;
“Who the thunder put this thing here?”