‘Pack your pillows,’ said the doctor sharply, as he saw Hummil preparing to lie down at full length. The night-light was trimmed; the shadow of the punkah wavered across the room, and the ‘flick’ of the punkah-towel and the soft whine of the rope through the wall-hole followed it. Then the punkah flagged, almost ceased. The sweat poured from Spurstow’s brow. Should he go out and harangue the coolie? It started forward again with a savage jerk, and a pin came out of the towels. When this was replaced, a tomtom in the coolie-lines began to beat with the steady throb of a swollen artery inside some brain-fevered skull. Spurstow turned on his side and swore gently. There was no movement on Hummil’s part. The man had composed himself as rigidly as a corpse, his hands clinched at his sides. The respiration was too hurried for any suspicion of sleep. Spurstow looked at the set face. The jaws were clinched, and there was a pucker round the quivering eyelids. ‘He’s holding himself as tightly as ever he can,’ thought Spurstow. ‘What in the world is the matter with him?--Hummil!’ ‘Yes,’ in a thick constrained voice. ‘Can’t you get to sleep?’ ‘No.’ ‘Head hot? ‘Throat feeling bulgy? or how?’ ‘Neither, thanks. I don’t sleep much, you know.’ ‘Feel pretty bad?’ ‘Pretty bad, thanks. There is a tomtom outside, isn’t there? I thought it was my head at first.... Oh, Spurstow, for pity’s sake give me something that will put me asleep,--sound asleep,--if it’s only for six hours!’ He sprang up, trembling from head to foot. ‘I haven’t been able to sleep naturally for days, and I can’t stand it!--I can’t stand it!’ ‘Poor old chap!’ ‘That’s no use. Give me something to make me sleep. I tell you I’m nearly mad. I don’t know what I say half my time. For three weeks I’ve had to think and spell out every word that has come through my lips before I dared say it. Isn’t that enough to drive a man mad? I can’t see things correctly now, and I’ve lost my sense of touch. My skin aches--my skin aches! Make me sleep. Oh, Spurstow, for the love of God make me sleep sound. It isn’t enough merely to let me dream. Let me sleep!’ ‘All right, old man, all right. Go slow; you aren’t half as bad as you think.’ The flood-gates of reserve once broken, Hummil was clinging to him like a frightened child. ‘You’re pinching my arm to pieces.’ ‘I’ll break your neck if you don’t do something for me. No, I didn’t mean that. Don’t be angry, old fellow.’ He wiped the sweat off himself as he fought to regain composure. ‘I’m a bit restless and off my oats, and perhaps you could recommend some sort of sleeping mixture,--bromide of potassium.’ ‘Bromide of skittles! Why didn’t you tell me this before? Let go of my arm, and I’ll see if there’s anything in my cigarette-case to suit your complaint.’ Spurstow hunted among his day-clothes, turned up the lamp, opened a little silver cigarette-case, and advanced on the expectant Hummil with the daintiest of fairy squirts.