Robert Michael Ballantyne
The Giant of the North: Pokings Round the Pole
“Blackbeard,” he said, entering the Captain’s hut and sitting down with a troubled air, “my father does not think much of you. Tell him that, Unders.”
“I understand you well enough, Chingatok; go on, and let me know why the old man does not think well of me.”
“He thinks you are a fool,” returned the plain spoken Eskimo.
“H’m! I’m not altogether surprised at that, lad. I’ve sometimes thought so myself. Well, I suppose you’ve come to give me some good advice to make me wiser—eh! Chingatok?”
“Yes, that is what I come for. Do what I tell you, and my father will begin to think you wise.”
“Ah, yes, the old story,” remarked Benjy, who was an amused listener—for his father translated in a low tone for the benefit of his companions as the conversation proceeded—“the same here as everywhere—Do as I tell you and all will be well!”
“Hold your tongue, Ben,” whispered Alf.
“Well, what am I to do?” asked the Captain.
“Invite my father to a feast,” said Chingatok eagerly, “and me too, and my mother too; also my wife, and some of the braves with their wives. And you must give us biskit an’—what do you call that brown stuff?”
“Coffee,” suggested the Captain.
“Yes, cuffy, also tee, and shoogre, and seal st– ate—what?”
“Steak—eh?”
“Yes, stik, and cook them all in the strange lamp. You must ask us to see the feast cooked, and then we will eat it.”
It will be observed that when Chingatok interpolated English words in his discourse his pronunciation was not perfect.
“Well, you are the coolest fellow I’ve met with for many a day! To order a feast, invite yourself to it, name the rest of the company, as well as the victuals, and insist on seeing the cooking of the same,” said the Captain in English; then, in Eskimo,—“Well, Chingatok, I will do as you wish. When would you like supper?”
“Now,” replied the giant, with decision.
“You hear, Butterface,” said the Captain when he had translated, “go to work and get your pots and pans ready. See that you put your best foot foremost. It will be a turning-point, this feast, I see.”
Need we say that the feast was a great success? The wives, highly pleased at the attention paid them by the strangers, were won over at once. The whole party, when assembled in the hut, watched with the most indescribable astonishment the proceedings of the negro—himself a living miracle—as he manipulated a machine which, in separate compartments, cooked steaks and boiled tea, coffee, or anything else, by means of a spirit lamp in a few minutes. On first tasting the hot liquids they looked at each other suspiciously; then as the sugar tickled their palates, they smiled, tilted their pannikins, drained them to the dregs, and asked for more!
The feast lasted long, and was highly appreciated. When the company retired—which did not happen until the Captain declared he had nothing more to give them, and turned the cooking apparatus upside down to prove what he said—there was not a man or woman among them who did not hold and even loudly assert that the Kablunets were wise men.
After the feast the council of war was held and the strangers were allowed to be present. There was a great deal of talk—probably some of it was not much to the point, but there was no interruption or undignified confusion. There was a peace-party, of course, and a war-party, but the latter prevailed. It too often does so in human affairs. Chingatok was understood to favour the peace-party, but as his sire was on the other side, respect kept him tongue-tied.
“These Eskimos reverence age and are respectful to women,” whispered Leo to Alf, “so we may not call them savages.”
The old chief spoke last, summing up the arguments, as it were, on both sides, and giving his reasons for favouring war.
“The island is of no use,” he said; “it is not worth a seal’s nose, yet Grabantak wishes to tear it from us—us who have possessed it since the forgotten times. Why is this? because he wishes to insult us,” (“huk!” from the audience). “Shall we submit to insult? shall we sit down like frightened birds and see the black-livered cormorant steal what is ours? shall the courage of the Poloes be questioned by all the surrounding tribes? Never! while we have knives in our boots and spears in our hands. We will fight till we conquer or till we are all dead—till our wives are husbandless and our children fatherless, and all our stores of meat and oil are gone!” (“huk! huk!”) “Then shall it be said by surrounding tribes, ‘Behold! how brave were the Poloes! they died and left their wives and little children to perish, or mourn in slavery, rather than submit to insult!’”
The “huks” that greeted the conclusion of the speech were so loud and numerous that the unfortunate peace-makers were forced to hide their diminished heads.
Thus did Amalatok resolve to go to war for “worse than Nort Pole—for nothing”—rather than submit to insult!2
Chapter Seventeen.
The Effect of Persuasion on Diverse Characters
The warlike tendencies of Grabantak, the northern savage, had the effect of compelling Captain Vane and his party to delay for a considerable time their efforts to reach the Pole. This was all the more distressing that they had by that time approached so very near to it. A carefully made observation placed the island of Poloe in latitude 88 degrees 30 minutes 10 seconds, about 90 geographical, or 104 English statute miles from the Pole.
There was no help for it, however. To have ventured on Grabantak’s territory while war was impending would have been to court destruction. Captain Vane saw therefore that the only way of advancing his own cause was to promote peace between the tribes. With a view to this he sought an interview with the old chief Amalatok.
“Why do you wish to go to war?” he asked.
“I do not wish to go to war,” answered the chief, frowning fiercely.
“Why do you go then?” said the Captain in a soothing tone, for he was very anxious not to rouse the chief’s anger; but he was unsuccessful, for the question seemed to set the old man on fire. He started up, grinding his teeth and striding about his hut, knocking over pots, oil cans, and cooking-lamps somewhat like that famous bull which got into a china shop. Finding the space too small for him he suddenly dropped on his knees, crept through the low entrance, sprang up, and began to stride about more comfortably.
The open air calmed him a little. He ceased to grind his teeth, and stopping in front of the Captain, who had followed him, said in a low growl, “Do you think I will submit to insult?”
“Some men have occasionally done so with advantage,” answered the Captain.
“Kablunets may do so, Eskimos never!” returned the old man, resuming his hurried walk to and fro, and the grinding of his teeth again.
“If Amalatok were to kill all his enemies—all the men, women and children,” said the Captain, raising a fierce gleam of satisfaction in the old man’s face at the mere suggestion, “and if he were to knock down all their huts, and burn up all their kayaks and oomiaks, the insult would still remain, because an insult can only be wiped out by one’s enemy confessing his sin and repenting.”
For a few seconds Amalatok stood silent; his eyes fixed on the ground as if he were puzzled.
“The white man is right,” he said at length, “but if I killed them all I should be avenged.”
“Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,” leaped naturally to the Captain’s mind; but, reflecting that the man before him was a heathen who would not admit the value of the quotation, he paused a moment or two.
“And what,” he then said, “if Grabantak should kill Amalatok and all his men, and carry away the women and children into slavery, would the insult be wiped out in that case? Would it not rather be deepened?”
“True, it would; but then we should all be dead—we should not care.”
“The men would all be dead, truly,” returned the Captain, “but perhaps the women and children left behind might care. They would also suffer.”
“Go, go,” said the Eskimo chief, losing temper as he lost ground in the argument; “what can Kablunets know about such matters? You tell me you are men of peace; that your religion is a religion of peace. Of course, then, you understand nothing about war. Go, I have been insulted, and I must fight.”
Seeing that it would be fruitless talking to the old chief while he was in this frame of mind, Captain Vane left him and returned to his own hut, where he found Chingatok and Leo engaged in earnest conversation—Alf and Benjy being silent listeners.
“I’m glad you’ve come, uncle,” said Leo, making room for him on the turf seat, “because Chingatok and I are discussing the subject of war; and—”
“A strange coincidence,” interrupted the Captain. “I have just been discussing the same subject with old Amalatok. I hope that in showing the evils of war you are coming better speed with the son than I did with the father.”
“As to that,” said Leo, “I have no difficulty in showing Chingatok the evils of war. He sees them clearly enough already. The trouble I have with him is to explain the Bible on that subject. You see he has got a very troublesome inquiring sort of mind, and ever since I have told him that the Bible is the Word of God he won’t listen to my explanations about anything. He said to me in the quietest way possible, just now, ‘Why do you give me your reasons when you tell me the Great Spirit has given His? I want to know what He says.’ Well, now, you know, it is puzzling to be brought to book like that, and I doubt if Anders translates well. You understand and speak the language, uncle, better than he does, I think, so I want you to help me.”
“I’ll try, Leo, though I am ashamed to say I am not so well read in the Word myself as I ought to be. What does Chingatok want to know?”
“He wants to reconcile things, of course. That is always the way. Now I told him that the Great Spirit is good, and does not wish men to go to war, and that He has written for us a law, namely, that we should ‘live peaceably with all men.’ Chingatok liked this very much, but then I had told him before, that the Great Spirit had told His ancient people the Jews to go and fight His enemies, and take possession of their lands. Now he regards this as a contradiction. He says—How can a man live peaceably with all men, and at the same time go to war with some men, kill them, and take their lands?”
“Ah! Leo, my boy, your difficulty in answering the Eskimo lies in your own partial quotation of Scripture,” said the Captain. Then, turning to Chingatok, he added, “My young friend did not give you the whole law—only part of it. The word is written thus:– ‘if it be possible, as much as lieth in you, live peaceably with all men.’ Some times it is not possible, Chingatok; then we must fight. But the law says keep from fighting ‘as much as you can.’ Mind that, Chingatok, and if you are ever induced to go to war for the sake of a little island—for the sake of a little insult,—don’t flatter yourself that you are keeping out of it as much as lieth in you.”
“Good, good,” said the giant, earnestly; “Blackbeard’s words are wise.”
“As to the people of God in the long past,” continued the Captain, “God told them to go to war, so they went; but that does not authorise men to go to war at their own bidding. What is right in the Great Father of all may be very wrong in the children. God kills men every day, and we do not blame Him, but if man kills his fellow we hunt him down as a murderer. In the long past time the Great Father spoke to His children by His wise and holy men, and sometimes He saw fit to tell them to fight. With His reasons we have nothing to do. Now, the Great Father speaks to us by His Book. In it He tells us to live in peace with all men—if possible.”
“Good,” said the giant with an approving nod, though a perplexed expression still lingered on his face. “But the Great Father has never before spoken to me by His Book—never at all to my forefathers.”
“He may, however, have spoken by His Spirit within you, Chingatok, I cannot tell,” returned the Captain with a meditative air. “You have desires for peace and a tendency to forgive. This could not be the work of the spirit of evil. It must have been that of the Good Spirit.”
This seemed to break upon the Eskimo as a new light, and he relapsed into silence as he thought of the wonderful idea that within his breast the Great Spirit might have been working in time past although he knew it not. Then he thought of the many times he had in the past resisted what he had hitherto only thought of as good feelings; and the sudden perception that at such times he had been resisting the Father of all impressed him for the first time with a sensation of guiltiness. It was some time before the need of a Saviour from sin entered into his mind, but the ice had been broken, and at last, through Leo’s Bible, as read by him and explained by Captain Vane, Jesus, the Sun of Righteousness, rose upon his soul and sent in the light for which he had thirsted so long.
But, as we have said, this effect was not immediate, and he remained in a state of uncertainty and sadness while the warlike councils and preparations went on.
Meanwhile Captain Vane set himself earnestly to work to hit on some plan by which, if possible, to turn the feeling of the Eskimo community in favour of peace. At first he thought of going alone and unarmed, with Anders as interpreter, to the land of Grabantak to dissuade that savage potentate from attacking the Poloes, but the Eskimos pointed out that the danger of this plan was so great that he might as well kill himself at once. His own party, also, objected to it so strongly that he gave it up, and resolved in the meantime to strengthen his position and increase his influence with the natives among whom his lot was cast, by some exhibitions of the powers with which science and art had invested him.
Chapter Eighteen.
The Captain electrifies as well as surprises his New Friends
It will be remembered that the party of Englishmen arrived at Poloeland under oars, and although the india-rubber boats had been gazed at, and gently touched, with intense wonder by the natives, they had not yet seen the process of disinflation, or the expansion of the kites.
Of course, Chingatok and their other Eskimo fellow-travellers had given their friends graphic descriptions of everything, but this only served to whet the desire to see the wonderful oomiaks in action. Several times, during the first few days, the old chief had expressed a wish to see the Kablunets go through the water in their boats, but as the calm still prevailed, and the Captain knew his influence over the natives would depend very much on the effect with which his various proceedings were carried out, he put him off with the assurance that when the proper time for action came, he would let him know.
One night a gentle breeze sprang up and blew directly off shore. As it seemed likely to last, the Captain waited till the whole community was asleep, and then quietly roused his son.
“Lend a hand here, Ben,” he whispered, “and make no noise.”
Benjy arose and followed his father in a very sleepy frame of mind.
They went to the place where the india-rubber boats lay, close behind the Englishmen’s hut, and, unscrewing the brass heads that closed the air-holes, began to press out the air.
“That’s it, Ben, but don’t squeeze too hard, lest the hissing should rouse some of ’em.”
“What’r ’ee doin’ this for—ee—yaou?” asked Benjy, yawning.
“You’ll see that to-morrow, lad.”
“Hum! goin’ t’squeeze’m all?”
“Yes, all three, and put ’em in their boxes.”
The conversation flagged at this point, and the rest of the operation was performed in silence.
Next morning, after breakfast, seeing that the breeze still held, the Captain sent a formal message to Amalatok, that he was prepared to exhibit his oomiaks.
The news spread like wild-fire, and the entire community soon assembled—to the number of several hundreds—in front of the Englishmen’s hut, where the Captain was seen calmly seated on a packing-case, with a solemn expression on his face. The rest of his party had been warned to behave with dignity. Even Benjy’s round face was drawn into something of an oval, and Butterface made such superhuman attempts to appear grave, that the rest of the party almost broke down at the sight of him.
Great was the surprise among the natives when they perceived that the three oomiaks had disappeared.
“My friends,” said the Captain, rising, “I will now show you the manner in which we Englishmen use our oomiaks.”
A soft sigh of expectation ran through the group of eager natives, as they pressed round their chief and Chingatok who stood looking on in dignified silence, while the Captain and his companions went to work. Many of the women occupied a little eminence close at hand, whence they could see over the heads of the men, and some of the younger women and children clambered to the top of the hut, the better to witness the great sight.
Numerous and characteristic were the sighs, “huks,” grunts, growls, and other exclamations; all of which were in keeping with the more or less intense glaring of eyes, and opening of mouths, and slight bending of knees and elbows, and spreading of fingers, and raising of hands, as the operators slowly unrolled the india-rubber mass, attached the bellows, gradually inflated the first boat, fixed the thwarts and stretchers, and, as it were, constructed a perfect oomiak in little more than ten minutes.
Then there was a shout of delight when the Captain and Leo, one at the bow, the other at the stern, lifted the boat as if it had been a feather, and, carrying it down the beach, placed it gently in the sea.
But the excitement culminated when Chingatok, stepping lightly into it, sat down on the seat, seized the little oars, and rowed away.
We should have said, attempted to row away, for, though he rowed lustily, the boat did not move, owing to Anders, who, like Eskimos in general, dearly loved a practical joke. Holding fast by the tail-line a few seconds, he suddenly let go, and the boat shot away, while Anders, throwing a handful of water after it, said, “Go off, bad boy, and don’t come back; we can do without you.” A roar of laughter burst forth. Some of the small boys and girls leaped into the air with delight, causing the tails of the latter to wriggle behind them.
The Captain gave them plenty of time to blow off the steam of surprise. When they had calmed down considerably, he proceeded to open out and arrange one of the kites.
Of course this threw them back into the open-eyed and mouthed, and finger-spreading condition, and, if possible, called forth more surprise than before. When the kite soared into the sky, they shouted; when it was being attached to the bow of the boat, they held their breath with expectation, many of them standing on one leg; and when at last the boat, with four persons in it, shot away to sea at the rate of eight or ten miles an hour, they roared with ecstasy; accompanying the yells with contortions of frame and visage which were so indescribable that we gladly leave it all to the reader’s imagination.
There can be no doubt of the fact that the Captain placed himself and his countrymen that day on a pedestal from which there was no fear of their being afterwards dislodged.
“Did not I tell you,” said Chingatok to his sire that night, in the privacy of his hut, “that the Kablunets are great men?”
“You did, my son. Chingatok is wise, and his father is a fool!”
No doubt the northern savage meant this self-condemning speech to be understood much in the same way in which it is understood by civilised people.
“When the oomiak swelled I thought it was going to burst,” added the chief.
“So did I, when I first saw it,” said Chingatok. Father and son paused a few minutes. They usually did so between each sentence. Evidently they pondered what they said.
“Have these men got wives?” asked the chief.
“The old one has, and Bunjay is his son. The other ones—no. The black man may have a wife: I know not, but I should think that no woman would have him.”
“What made him black?”
“I know not.”
“Was he always black?”
“The Kablunets say he was—from so big.”
Chingatok measured off the half of his left hand by way of explaining how big.
“Is he black under the clothes?”
“Yes; black all over.”
Again the couple paused.
“It is strange,” said the old man, shaking his head. “Perhaps he was made black because his father was wicked.”
“Not so,” returned the young giant. “I have heard him say his father was a very good man.”
“Strange,” repeated the chief, with a solemn look, “he is very ugly—worse than a walrus. Tell me, my son, where do the Kablunets live? Do they hunt the walrus or the seal?”
“Blackbeard has told me much, father, that I do not understand. His people do not hunt much—only a very few of them do.”
“Wah! they are lazy! The few hunt to keep the rest in meat, I suppose.”
“No, father, that is not the way. The few hunt for fun. The great many spend their time in changing one thing for another. They seem to be never satisfied—always changing, changing—every day, and all day. Getting and giving, and never satisfied.”
“Poor things!” said the chief.
“And they have no walruses, no white bears, no whales, nothing!” added the son.
“Miserables! Perhaps that is why they come here to search for nothing!”
“But, father, if they have got nothing at home, why come here to search for it?”
“What do they eat?” asked Amalatok, quickly, as if he were afraid of recurring to the puzzling question that had once already taken him out of his mental depth.
“They eat all sorts of things. Many of them eat things that are nasty—things that grow out of the ground; things that are very hot and burn the tongue; things that are poison and make them ill. They eat fish too, like us, and other people bring them their meat in great oomiaks from far-off lands. They seem to be so poor that they cannot find enough in their own country to feed themselves.”
“Wretched creatures!” said the old man, pitifully. “Yes, and they drink too. Drink waters so hot and so terrible that they burn their mouths and their insides, and so they go mad.”
“Did I not say that they were fools?” said Amalatok, indignantly.
“But the strangest thing of all,” continued Chingatok, lowering his voice, and looking at his sire in a species of wonder, “is that they fill their mouths with smoke!”
“What? Eat smoke?” said Amalatok in amazement.
“No, they spit it out.”
“Did Blackbeard tell you that?”
“Yes.”
“Then Blackbeard is a liar!”
Chingatok did not appear to be shocked by the old man’s plain speaking, but he did not agree with him.
“No, father,” said he, after a pause. “Blackbeard is not a liar. He is good and wise, and speaks the truth. I have seen the Kablunets do it myself. In the big oomiak that they lost, some of the men did it, so—puff, pull, puff, puff—is it not funny?”
Both father and son burst into laughter at this, and then, becoming suddenly grave, remained staring at the smoke of their cooking-lamp, silently meditating on these things.
While thus engaged, a man entered the low doorway in the only possible manner, on hands and knees, and, rising, displayed the face of Anders.
“Blackbeard sends a message to the great old chief,” said the interpreter. “He wishes him to pay the Kablunets a visit. He has something to show to the great old chief.”
“Tell him I come,” said the chief, with a toss of the head which meant, “be off!”
“I wonder,” said Amalatok slowly, as Anders crept out, “whether Blackbeard means to show us some of his wisdom or some of his foolishness. The white men appear to have much of both.”
“Let us go see,” said Chingatok.
They went, and found the Captain seated in front of the door of his hut with his friends round him—all except Benjy, who was absent. They were very grave, as usual, desiring to be impressive.
“Chief,” began the Captain, in that solemn tone in which ghosts are supposed to address mankind, “I wish to show you that I can make the stoutest and most obstinate warrior of Poloeland tremble and jump without touching him.”
“That is not very difficult,” said the old man, who had still a lurking dislike to acknowledge the Englishmen his superiors. “I can make any one of them tremble and jump by throwing a spear at him.”
A slight titter from the assembly testified to the success of this reply.
“But,” rejoined the Captain, with deepening solemnity, “I will do it without throwing a spear.”
“So will I, by suddenly howling at him in the dark,” said Amalatok.
At this his men laughed outright.
“But I will not howl or move,” said the Captain.
“That will be clever,” returned the chief, solemnised in spite of himself. “Let Blackbeard proceed.”
“Order one of your braves to stand before me on that piece of flat skin,” said the Captain.
Amalatok looked round, and, observing a huge ungainly man with a cod-fishy expression of face, who seemed to shrink from notoriety, ordered him to step forward. The man did so with obvious trepidation, but he dared not refuse. The Captain fixed his eyes on him sternly, and, in a low growling voice, muttered in English: “Now, Benjy, give it a good turn.”
Cod-fishiness vanished as if by magic, and, with a look of wild horror, the man sprang into the air, tumbled on his back, rose up, and ran away!
It is difficult to say whether surprise or amusement predominated among the spectators. Many of them laughed heartily, while the Captain, still as grave as a judge, said in a low growling tone as if speaking to himself:—
“Not quite so stiff, Benjy, not quite so stiff. Be more gentle next time. Don’t do it all at once, boy; jerk it, Benjy, a turn or so at a time.”
It is perhaps needless to inform the reader that the Captain was practising on the Eskimos with his electrical machine, and that Benjy was secretly turning the handle inside the hut. The machine was connected, by means of wires, with the piece of skin on which the patients stood. These wires had been laid underground, not, indeed, in the darkness, but, during the secrecy and silence of the previous night.
After witnessing the effect on the first warrior, no other brave seemed inclined to venture on the skin, and the women, who enjoyed the fun greatly, were beginning to taunt them with cowardice, when Oolichuk strode forward. He believed intensely, and justifiably, in his own courage. No man, he felt quite sure, had the power to stare him into a nervous condition—not even the fiercest of the Kablunets. Let Blackbeard try, and do his worst!
Animated by these stern and self-reliant sentiments, he stepped upon the mat.
Benjy, being quick in apprehension, perceived his previous error, and proceeded this time with caution. He gave the handle of the machine a gentle half-turn and stopped, peeping through a crevice in the wall to observe the effect.
“Ha! ha! ho! ho!—hi! huk!” laughed Oolichuk, as a tickling sensation thrilled through all his nervous system. The laugh was irresistibly echoed by the assembled community.
Benjy waited a few seconds, and then gave the handle another and slightly stronger turn.
The laugh this time was longer and more ferocious, while the gallant Eskimo drew himself together, determined to resist the strange and subtle influence; at the same time frowning defiance at the Captain, who never for a moment took his coal-black eye off him!
Again Benjy turned the handle gently. He evidently possessed something of the ancient Inquisitor spirit, and gloated over the pains of his victim! The result was that Oolichuk not only quivered from head to foot, but gave a little jump and anything but a little yell. Benjy’s powers of self-restraint were by that time exhausted. He sent the handle round with a whirr and Oolichuk, tumbling backwards off the mat, rent the air with a shriek of demoniac laughter.
Of course the delight of the Eskimos—especially of the children—was beyond all bounds, and eager were the efforts made to induce another warrior to go upon the mysterious mat, but not one would venture. They would rather have faced their natural enemy, the great Grabantak, unarmed, any day!
In this difficulty an idea occurred to Amalatok. Seizing a huge dog by the neck he dragged it to the mat, and bade it lie down. The dog crouched and looked sheepishly round. Next moment he was in the air wriggling. Then he came to the ground, over which he rushed with a prolonged howl, and disappeared among the rocks on the hill side.
It is said that that poor dog was never again seen, but Benjy asserts most positively that, a week afterwards, he saw it sneaking into the village with its tail very much between its legs, and an expression of the deepest humility on its countenance.
“You’d better give them a taste of dynamite, father,” said Benjy that evening, as they all sat round their supper-kettle.
“No, no, boy. It is bad policy to fire off all your ammunition in a hurry. We’ll give it ’em bit by bit.”
“Just so, impress them by degrees,” said Alf.
“De fust warrior was nigh bu’sted by degrees,” said Butterface, with a broad grin, as he stirred the kettle. “You gib it ’im a’most too strong, Massa Benjee.”
“Blackbeard must be the bad spirit,” remarked Amalatok to his son that same night as they held converse together—according to custom—before going to bed.
“The bad spirit is never kind or good,” replied Chingatok, after a pause.
“No,” said the old man, “never.”
“But Blackbeard is always good and kind,” returned the giant.
This argument seemed unanswerable. At all events the old man did not answer it, but sat frowning at the cooking-lamp under the influence of intense thought.
After a prolonged meditation—during the course of which father and son each consumed the tit-bits of a walrus rib and a seal’s flipper—Chingatok remarked that the white men were totally beyond his comprehension. To which, after another pause, his father replied that he could not understand them at all.
Then, retiring to their respective couches, they calmly went to sleep—“perchance to dream!”
