And, as I gazed, I saw the arm of Professor Bottomly raised as though
groping instinctively for something in her slumber--saw her fingers close
upon the blue-flannel shirt of her companion, saw his timid futile
attempts to elude her, saw him inexorably hauled back and his head
forcibly pillowed upon her ample chest.
"Daisy!" I faltered, "what does yonder scene of presumable domesticity
mean?"
"I--I haven't the faintest idea!" she stammered.
"Is that lady married! Or is this revelry?" I asked, sternly.
"She wasn't married when she sailed from N-New-York," faltered Dr.
Delmour.
We rode forward in pained silence, spurring on until we caught up with
Lezard and Fooss and the pack-mules; then we all pressed ahead, a prey,
now, to the deepest moral anxiety and agitation.
The splashing of our mule's feet on the partly melted surface of the mud
aroused the man as we rode up and he scrambled madly to get out of the
hammock as soon as he saw us.
A detaining feminine hand reached mechanically for his collar, groped
aimlessly for a moment, and fell across the hammock's edge. Evidently its
owner was too sleepy for effort.
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