Satisfied with his scrutiny, he produced a pocket-flask, and taking off the silver cup with which it was mounted, filled it with the contents of the flask, and then seizing the thin arm of the sleeper, rudely shook it. "I believe he is conscious," she answered. His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet. Watching her strip had been delicious for him, and a part of him enjoyed her self-consciousness acutely. “I am sorry,” she said, “if you find the likeness unsatisfactory. "These writer chaps are queer birds.
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