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 of plaids. Byfield considerately helped me to arrange them. He may or may not have caught some accent of uncertainty in my thanks; at any rate he thought fit to add the assurance, "You may trust me, Mr. Ducie." I saw that I could and began almost to like the fellow.

In this posture I dozed through the afternoon. In dreams I heard Dalmahoy and Sheepshanks lifting their voices in amœbaean song, and became languidly aware that they were growing uproarious. I heard Byfield expostulating, apparently in vain; for I awoke next to find that Sheepshanks had stumbled over me while illustrating, with an empty bottle, the motions of tossing the caber. "Old Hieland sports," explained Dalmahoy, wiping tears of vain laughter: "his mother's uncle was out in the Forty-five. Sorry to wake you, Ducie: below, my babe!" It did not occur to me to smoke danger in this tomfoolery. I turned over and dozed again.

It seemed but a minute later that a buzzing in my ears awoke me; with a stab of pain as though my temples were being split with a wedge. On the instant I heard my name cried aloud, and sat up; to find myself blinking in a broad flood of moonlight over against the agitated face of Dalmahoy.

"Byfield"' I began.

Dalmahoy pointed. The aëronaut lay at my feet, collapsed like some monstrous marionette, with legs and arms a-splay. Across his legs, with head propped against a locker, reclined Sheepshanks, and gazed upwards with an approving smile. "Awkward business," explained Dalmahoy, between gasps. "Sheepshanks unmanageable; can't carry his liquor like a gentleman: thought it funny both of us pitch out ballast. Byfield lost his temper, worst thing in the world. One thing I pride myself, 'menable to reason. No holding Sheepshanks; Byfield got him