He did, indeed. The gray and silver uniform was ragged and soil-
stained; his boots were white with dust; his face was unshaved,
though a razor lay beside him, and it seemed that he had been
trying to strop it on his Sam Browne belt. His pipe, filled but
unlit, had fallen from his weary fingers; beside him was an empty
match-box and tragic evidence of a number of unsuccessful attempts
to get fire from a Swedish tandsticker. Crumpled under the elbow
of the indomitable idealist was a much-thumbed copy of The
Bartender's Benefactor, or How to Mix 1001 Drinks, in which he had
been seeking imaginary solace when he fell asleep. Near his head
ticked a pocket alarm clock, which they found set to gong at two
o'clock.

"It seems a shame to wake him," said Theodolinda. Her brown eyes
liquefied and effervesced with tenderness, until (as Bleak thought
to himself) they were quite the color of brandy and soda, without
too much soda.

The sleeper stirred, and a radiant smile passed over his
unconscious features--a smile of pure and heavenly beatitude.

"Say when, Jerry," he murmured.

"He's dreaming!" cried Theodolinda. "See, his soul is far away!"

"Two years away," said Bleak enviously. "Let him go to it while we
reconnoiter. I believe in the Prevention of Cruelty to Sleep. He
didn't intend to wake up just yet, you can see by the alarm
clock."