"Me--Jellicoe. I can't get to sleep." "Nor can I. I'm stiff all over." "I'll come over and sit on your bed." There was a creaking, and then a weight descended in the neighborhood of Mike's toes. Jellicoe was apparently not in conversational mood. He uttered no word for quite three minutes. At the end of which time he gave a sound midway between a snort and a sigh. "I say, Jackson!" he said. "Yes?" "Have you--oh, nothing." Silence again. "Jackson." "Hello?" "I say, what would your people say if you got sacked?" "All sorts of things. Especially my father. Why?" "Oh, I don't know. So would mine." "Everybody's would, I expect." "Yes." The bed creaked, as Jellicoe digested these great thoughts. Then he spoke again. "It would be a jolly beastly thing to get sacked." Mike was too tired to give his mind to the subject. He was not really listening. Jellicoe droned on in a depressed sort of way. "You'd get home in the middle of the afternoon, I suppose, and you'd drive up to the house, and the servant would open the door, and you'd go in. They might all be out, and then you'd have to hang about, and wait; and presently you'd hear them come in, and you'd go out into the passage, and they'd say 'Hello!'" Jellicoe, in order to give verisimilitude, as it were, to an otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative, flung so much agitated surprise into the last word that it woke Mike from a troubled doze into which he had fallen. "Hello?" he said. "What's up?" "Then you'd say, 'Hello!' And then they'd say, 'What are you doing here?' And you'd say--" "What on earth are you talking about?" "About what would happen." "Happen when?" "When you got home. After being sacked, you know." "Who's been sacked?" Mike's mind was still under a cloud. "Nobody. But if you were, I meant. And then I suppose there'd be an awful row and general sickness, and all that. And then you'd be sent into a bank, or to Australia, or something." Mike dozed off again. "My father would be frightfully sick. My mater would be sick. My sister would be jolly sick, too. Have you got any sisters, Jackson? I say, Jackson!" "Hello! What's the matter? Who's that?" "Me--Jellicoe." "What's up?" "I asked you if you'd got any sisters." "Any _what?_" "Sisters." "Whose sisters?" "Yours. I asked if you'd got any." "Any what?" "Sisters." "What about them?" The conversation was becoming too intricate for Jellicoe. He changed the subject. "I say, Jackson!" "Well?" "I say, you don't know anyone who could lend me a pound, do you?" "What!" cried Mike, sitting up in bed and staring through the darkness in the direction whence the numismatist's voice was proceeding. "Do _what?_" "I say, look out. You'll wake Psmith." "Did you say you wanted someone to lend you a quid?" "Yes," said Jellicoe eagerly. "Do you know anyone?"