A Backblocker's Pleasure Trip

He knocked the ashes from his pipe, and made some lightning changes in his toilet, substituting a woollen cap for his hardhitter, and rolling three yards of comforter round his neck. Then he yawned cavernously, and lolled back as far as the limited space would allow, using Micky for a pillow. The overseer likewise went into evening dress. He did more. He spread his rug along the aisle, got down on it with apologies, covered himself with his overcoat, said "good-night," and went to sleep. Being used to droving, he could sleep anywhere. He was a nuisance at first, but once he was fairly off he came handy to put our feet on. He was warmer and softer than the floor; and whenever he started to snore we had only to put some pressure on sharply to regulate him. Still we envied him. It was a long night. We got too tired to talk; we dozed and woke and nodded and swayed, being mostly jerked in to the perpendicular and wakefulness by somebody's elbow. We began to resent the overseer's monopoly of the bed; we felt that we could get along much better if he was up and there was no bed at our feet. It was like being at a wake with the corpse not dead yet, and no whisky on tap.

When the whistle blew, Mr. Muggs laid violent hands on him, and bellowed in his ear: "Hey, mate! Wake up!"