Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (152 page)

He
stopped
and
listened.
Another
sound
broke
on
his
ear.
It
was
a sort
of
breathless
howl.
A
breathless
howl?
Why,
of
course,
that
was
a yawn/
Someone
was
in
the
room
and
was
waking
up.
Mr.
Bradegar raised
his
head—so
that,
too,
wasn't
paralyzed.
And
that
movement discovered
something
else
for
him—his
eyes
hadn't
suddenly
failed; fact
was,
they
were
as
fresh
as
his
mind.
He
laughed.
He'd
fancied
he was
going
blind
because
his
nose
almost
had
been
touching
the
raised wooden
sidepiece
of
the
bed
head—that
silly
boy's
bed
in
which
he was
still
made
to
sleep
though
he
was
far
too
big
for
it
and
could never
stretch
his
legs.
He
flung
them
over
the
edge.
What
was
that dream
about
his
not
being
able
to
move?
The
sort
of
nightmare
one would
get
in
a
suffocating
little
bunk
like
this.
But
he'd
dreamed
a
lot more
than
that.
If
he
could
catch
the
whole
spiel
before
it
slipped away,
he'd
remember
all
sorts
of
odd
things.
Gosh!
it
was
a
dream
as long
as
David
Copperiield;
longer,
by
gum—all
about
all
sorts
of things:
being
a
success
and
arguing
people
down,
far
better
than
at the
school
debating
club,
and
meeting
a
wonderful
girl.

But,
somehow,
she
didn't,
he
recollected
faintly,
turn
out
to
be
so wonderful
after
all.
And
other
girls,
small
girls,
small
girls
that
he'd liked
because
they
were
small.
But
that
was
getting
out
of
one's
depth. How
could
one
like
little
girls!
He
couldn't
think
up
much
more
incident—only
a
general
impression
remained
that
he'd
had
a
crackerjack dream—not
so
nice
in
its
way,
but
wonderful
just
because
it
had seemed
so
confounded
real,
as
real
as
one's
own
life,
as
real
as
oneself in
this
little
old
sleeping
room
and
Uncle
Andy
still
snoozing
in
the big
bed
by
the
window.

Uncle
Andy
yawned
again,
snuffled,
and
remarked,
"You
been
talking
in
your
dreams
jest
like
one
of
them
thar
Edison
sound
boxes
I've jest
been
hearing
of.
You've
gotten
indigestion—eating
all
that
punkin pie
las'
night."

"It's
this
silly
little
bed.
It
gives
me
cramps.
I
was
somehow
fixed
so I
got
dreaming
I
couldn't
ever
move
again." "Indigestion;
overdistended
stummuck.
You
get
a
move
on." "Well,
I
feel
fine
this
morning."

"Then
get
up
and
don't
sit
there
yarning
at
me
and
complaining
of your
good
bed
that's
held
you
well
enough
these
twelve
years."

Uncle
Andy
was
always
a
little
sore
in
the
mornings,
Nick
Bradegar remembered.
Still,
as
he
got
out
to
fetch
his
towel
and
to
go
into
the yard
to
splash
under
the
pump,
he
felt,
suddenly,
that
he
must
stop and
ask
a
question.
Why?
It
was
the
sort
to
make
Uncle
Andy
sore. Still,
something
in
the
back
of
his
mind
made
him
feel
it
worth
the risk.