What's happenit to ye, Ralph, that ye s'ould be so
fearfu'?"
"N--nothin'; I'm tired, that's all. I guess I'll go to bed again."
He went back to bed, but not to sleep. Hot and feverish, and with his
mind in a tumult, he tossed about, restlessly, through the long hours
of the night. He had decided at last that he could not tell what he
had heard at Sharpman's office. The thought of having to return to
Simon Craft had settled the matter in his mind. The other reasons
for his silence he had lost sight of now; this last one outweighed
them all, and placed a seal upon his tongue that he felt must not
be broken.
Toward morning he fell into a troubled sleep and dreamed that Old
Simon was holding him over the mouth of Burnham Shaft, threatening to
drop him down into it, while Sharpman stood by, with his hands in his
pockets, laughing heartily at his terror. He managed to cry out, and
awoke both himself and Bachelor Billy. He started up in bed, clutching
at the coverings in an attempt, to save himself from apparent
disaster, trembling from head to foot, moaning hoarsely in his fright.
"What is it, Ralph, lad, what's ailin' ye?"
"Oh, don't! don't let him throw me--Uncle Billy, is that you?"
"It's me, Ralph. Waur ye dreamin'? There, never mind; no one s'all
harm ye, ye're safe i' the bed at hame. Gae to sleep, lad, gae to
sleep."
"I thought they was goin' to throw me down the shaft. I must 'a' been
a-dreamin'."
"Yes, ye waur dreamin'. Gae to sleep.
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