That shows we really feel our blessings. How does it go on?-- ‘If in the night I sleepless lie, My soul with sacred thoughts supply; May no ill dreams disturb my rest.’-- Quicker, Mottram!-- ‘Or powers of darkness me molest!’ ‘Bah! what an old hypocrite you are!’ ‘Don’t be an ass,’ said Lowndes. ‘You are at full liberty to make fun of anything else you like, but leave that hymn alone. It’s associated in my mind with the most sacred recollections----’ ‘Summer evenings in the country,--stained-glass window,--light going out, and you and she jamming your heads together over one hymn-book,’ said Mottram. ‘Yes, and a fat old cockchafer hitting you in the eye when you walked home. Smell of hay, and a moon as big as a bandbox sitting on the top of a haycock; bats,--roses,--milk and midges,’ said Lowndes. ‘Also mothers. I can just recollect my mother singing me to sleep with that when I was a little chap,’ said Spurstow. The darkness had fallen on the room. They could hear Hummil squirming in his chair. ‘Consequently,’ said he testily, ‘you sing it when you are seven fathom deep in Hell! It’s an insult to the intelligence of the Deity to pretend we’re anything but tortured rebels.’ ‘Take TWO pills,’ said Spurstow; ‘that’s tortured liver.’ ‘The usually placid Hummil is in a vile bad temper. I’m sorry for his coolies to-morrow,’ said Lowndes, as the servants brought in the lights and prepared the table for dinner. As they were settling into their places about the miserable goat-chops, and the smoked tapioca pudding, Spurstow took occasion to whisper to Mottram, ‘Well done, David!’ ‘Look after Saul, then,’ was the reply. ‘What are you two whispering about?’ said Hummil suspiciously. ‘Only saying that you are a damned poor host. This fowl can’t be cut,’ returned Spurstow with a sweet smile. ‘Call this a dinner?’ ‘I can’t help it. You don’t expect a banquet, do you?’ Throughout that meal Hummil contrived laboriously to insult directly and pointedly all his guests in succession, and at each insult Spurstow kicked the aggrieved persons under the table; but he dared not exchange a glance of intelligence with either of them. Hummil’s face was white and pinched, while his eyes were unnaturally large. No man dreamed for a moment of resenting his savage personalities, but as soon as the meal was over they made haste to get away. ‘Don’t go. You’re just getting amusing, you fellows. I hope I haven’t said anything that annoyed you. You’re such touchy devils.’ Then, changing the note into one of almost abject entreaty, Hummil added, ‘I say, you surely aren’t going?’ ‘In the language of the blessed Jorrocks, where I dines I sleeps,’ said Spurstow. ‘I want to have a look at your coolies to-morrow, if you don’t mind. You can give me a place to lie down in, I suppose?’