him seemed compact and hard. His curls were all dishevelled, and his
face was miserably puffy, but he had not had time to become bloated. No
wonder that girls liked him.

Presently we were all awake, and a more wretched company could not very
well be found. Novelists talk about "a debauch" in a way that makes
novices think debauchery has something grand and mysterious about it.
"We must have orgies; it's the proper thing," says Tom Sawyer the
delightful. The raw lad finds "debauches" mentioned with majestic
melancholy, and he naturally fancies that, although a debauch may be
wicked, it is neither nasty nor contemptible. Why cannot some good man
tell the sordid truth? I suppose he would be accused of Zolaism, but he
would frighten away many a nice lad from the wrong road. Let any
youngster who reads this try to remember his worst sick headache; let
him (if he has been to sea) remember that moment when he longed for
someone to come and throw him overboard; let him then imagine that he
has committed a deadly crime; let him also fancy what he would feel if
he knew that some awful irreparable calamity must inevitably fall on him
within an hour. Then he will understand that state of mind and body
which makes men loathe beauty, loathe goodness, loathe life; then he
will understand what jolly fellows endure.

We glowered glassily on each other, and we were quite ready either to
quarrel or to shed tears on the faintest provocation. Presently Bob
laughed in a forced way, and said, "God, what a head! Let's come out.
Those yellow shades make me bilious." The glory of full day flooded the
lovely banks, but the light pained our eyes, and we sought refuge in the
cool, dim shades of the parlour. Our conversation was exactly like that
of passengers on board ship when they are just about to collapse. The
minutes seemed like hours; our limbs were listless, as if we had been