good book, it is no
book for you at the present time. It is morbid to dwell on what is done
and over."

"If it is over," murmured the boy.

"It is over!" said Baumgartner, fiercely.

"Well," said Pocket, "I'm glad I read what he'd got to say about
somnambulism."

"Why?"

Pocket did not say it was a satisfaction to have done anything in spite of
such a despot as his questioner. But he did say it was a comfort to know
that others besides himself had committed terrible deeds in their sleep.

"But," he added, "they always seem to have dreamt the dreadful thing as
well. Now, the funny thing is that I remember nothing until the shot woke
me and I found myself where you saw me."

"I'm glad you find it funny!"

The sneer seemed strangely unworthy of a keen intelligence; the increased
asperity of Baumgartner's manner, and his whole conduct about a harmless
book, altogether inexplicable.

"You know what I mean," replied the boy, with spirit.

"Yes, I know what you mean! You mean to go out of your mind, and to do
your best to drive me out of mine, for the sake of a technically human
life less precious than the average dog's!"

And, much as it puzzled him, there was certainly something more human
about this sudden outburst than in anything Dr. Baumgartner had said since
the scene between them in the bedroom below. He even slammed the door
behind him when he went. But Pocket preferred that novel exhibition, for
its very heat and violence, to the sleek and calculated solicitude of the
doctor's final visit, with pipe and candle, when the one by the bedside
had burnt down almost to the socket.

"My young fellow!" he exclaimed in unctuous distress. "Not a bite eaten
in all these hours! Do you know that it's nearly midnight?"

"I'm not hungry," replied Pocket, lying gloriously for once. "I told you
I wasn't well."

"You'll be worse if you don't force yourself to eat."

"I can't help that."

"Well, well!" said the doctor, instead of the objurgation that seemed to
tremble for an instant on his lips. He replaced between them the oval
hook of clear amber enclosing the thin round one of black nicotine, and he
puffed until the cruel carved face was hotter and more infuriate than
ever, under the swirling smoke of mimic battle. To the boy it was all but
a living face, and a vile one, capable of nameless atrocities; and the
hard-frozen face of Baumgartner was capable of looking on.

"Well, well! If I am to have y