There Was George, Throwing Away In Hideous Sloth The Inestimable Gift Of
Time; His Valuable Life, Every Second Of Which He Would Have To Account
For Hereafter, Passing Away From Him, Unused.
He might have been up
stuffing himself with eggs and bacon, irritating the dog, or flirting
with the slavey, instead of sprawling there, sunk in soul-clogging
oblivion.
It was a terrible thought. Harris and I appeared to be struck by it at
the same instant. We determined to save him, and, in this noble resolve,
our own dispute was forgotten. We flew across and slung the clothes off
him, and Harris landed him one with a slipper, and I shouted in his ear,
and he awoke.
"Wasermarrer?" he observed, sitting up.
"Get up, you fat-headed chunk!" roared Harris. "It's quarter to ten."
"What!" he shrieked, jumping out of bed into the bath; "Who the thunder
put this thing here?"
We told him he must have been a fool not to see the bath.
We finished dressing, and, when it came to the extras, we remembered that
we had packed the tooth-brushes and the brush and comb (that tooth-brush
of mine will be the death of me, I know), and we had to go downstairs,
and fish them out of the bag. And when we had done that George wanted
the shaving tackle. We told him that he would have to go without shaving
that morning, as we weren't going to unpack that bag again for him, nor
for anyone like him.
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