Outside in that windless forest the drip of the rain was like the sound of waterfalls, but it was a magnificent, a haunted, a legendary forest none the less. Our shanty was faintly lit by the flickering cedar-candle. Queer shadows danced, eyes glittered, the faces here and there seemed distorted oddly in the shifting flame and darkness that alternately rose and fell. One by one, dog-tired, we fell asleep. It was R.M.’s turn to watch. Before supper was ended even, he lay soundly slumbering, his head, with touselled hair and ragged beard, thrown back against the wall, his mouth, containing unswallowed food--so weary was he--half-open. I exchanged a significant glance with Paxton over his collapsed body, meaning that we must watch instead. Our steaming clothes dried slowly as the night wore on. The dripping trickle of the trees became louder and louder. Paxton, very thin now, looked like a scarecrow in his ragged shirt and coat. His customary exclamation was rarely heard. He fell asleep in turn. The rest of the party had been snoring for an hour or more. It was up to me to watch. I watched. The next thing I knew was a sudden stealthy movement, and a low voice that woke me out of a slumber made of lead. The fire was low, the candle hardly flickered. Across the gloom I saw the movement that had waked me--Morris, the hairy man, was stirring. I watched him. He sat up. He leaned cautiously over--towards R.M. His hand stretched out slowly. Splendid fellow! I felt furious with R.M. for falling asleep, for keeping his mouth open in that idiotic way. Stupid idiot and faithless comrade! Morris, I saw, was doing something to his bulky, motionless figure, just about to slit him open perhaps. Well, let him slit! It was the head he touched. He was doing something to the sleeper’s head--pushing it--pushing it sideways so that a stream of water through the roof might just miss falling on his shoulder and thus splashing the hairy man’s own face with spray. I watched closely, faithful to my job. I saw Morris the Stiff take a bit of spare clothing out of his pack and hang it over R.M.’s neck and shoulder. “I got no use for it,” he was saying. “Yer friend might jest as well hev it.” He knew, therefore, quite well that I was watching. But R.M. knew nothing, less than nothing. He neither stirred nor woke. A more kindly, tender-hearted fellow than Morris the Stiff, no traveller in wild places could possibly desire.