home-sick and begun to express his feelings in a series of prolonged
and exasperating howls.

Mr. Fogg was indignant. Neglecting the sheep, he leaped from bed and
began to bombard Mix's new dog with boots, soap-cups and every loose
object he could lay his hands on. He hit the animal at last with a
plaster bust of Daniel Webster, and induced the dog to retreat to the
stable and think about home in silence.

It seemed almost ridiculous to resume those sheep again, but he
determined to give the almanac-man one more chance, and soon as they
began to jump the fence he began to count, and after seeing the
eighty-second sheep safely over he was gliding gently in the land of
dreams, when Mrs. Fogg rolled out of bed and fell on the floor with
such violence that she waked the baby and started it crying, while Mr.
Fogg's aunt came down stairs four steps at a time to ask if they felt
that earthquake.

The situation was too awful for words. Mr. Fogg regarded it for a
minute with speechless indignation, and then, seizing a pillow, he
went over to the sofa in the back sitting-room and lay down.

He fell asleep in ten minutes without the assistance of the almanac,
but he dreamed all night that he was being butted around the equator
by a Cotswold ram, and he woke in the morning with a terrific headache
and a conviction that sheep are good enough for wool and chops, but
not worth anything as a narcotic.

* * * * *