“Here we are, Charley. Have a second supper—do!”
Harry placed the smoking kettle by the head of the bed, and squatting down beside it, began to eat as only a boy _can_ eat who has had nothing since breakfast.
Charley attacked the kettle too—as he said, “out of sympathy,” although he “wasn’t hungry a bit.” And really, for a man who was not hungry, and had supped half-an-hour before, the appetite of _sympathy_ was wonderfully strong.
But Harry’s powers of endurance were now exhausted. He had spent a long day of excessive fatigue and excitement, and having wound it up with a heavy supper, sleep began to assail him with a fell ferocity that nothing could resist. He yawned once or twice, and sat on the bed blinking unmeaningly at the fire, as if he had something to say to it which he could not recollect just then. He nodded violently, much to his own surprise, once or twice, and began to address remarks to the kettle instead of to his friend. “I say, Charley, this won’t do. I’m off to bed!” and suiting the action to the word, he took off his coat and placed it on his pillow. He then removed his moccasins, which were wet, and put on a dry pair; and this being all that is ever done in the way of preparation before going to bed in the woods, he lay down and pulled the green blankets over him.