Page:Frank Owen - Rare Earth, 1931.djvu/100

 which had been raging in the heart of Scobee Trent. Presently a bird chirped in a nearby treetop. The countryside was shaking off its robes of sleep. A roseate hue spread over the sky. The deep blue of night faded. The lantern stars grew dim. Scobee stirred. But his sleep was deep. And then the dawn. It was as though enormous doors had been flung open in the East and day came plunging through.

Hung Long Tom rose to his feet and gazed in awe at the dawn. Old man though he was, each new sunrise was a pageant to him. Oh, the joy of it, the hope, the courage. What fools men were to remain in bed while the most glorious spectacle of the ages was taking place. His withered old face glowed with ecstasy. A bit of color surged into his faded parchment cheeks.

Hung Long Tom was sitting patiently beside Scobee when at last he awakened though that is hardly the word to use when speaking of Scobee. He always protested to Hung Long Tom when he used it.

“I never awaken,” he used to say petulantly.