So I retired practically just as I was and endeavored,
as per the admonitions of certain friends, to lie perfectly flat.
No doubt this thing of lying flat is all very well for some people
--but suppose a fellow has not that kind of a figure?
Nevertheless, I tried. I lay as flat as I could, but the indisposition
persisted; in fact, it increased materially. The manner in which
my pajamas, limp and pendent from that hook, swayed and swung back
and forth became extremely distasteful to me; and if by mental
treatment I could have removed them from there I should assuredly
have done so. But that was impossible.
Along toward evening I began to think of food. I thought of it
not from its gastronomic aspect, but rather in the capacity of
ballast. I did not so much desire the taste of it as the feel of
it. So I summoned Lubly--he, at least, did not smile at me in
that patronizing, significant way--and ordered a dinner that
included nearly everything on the dinner card except Lubly's thumb.
The dinner was brought to me in relays and I ate it--ate it all!
This step I know now was ill-advised. It is true that for a short
time I felt as I imagine a python in a zoo feels when he is full
of guinea-pigs--sort of gorged, you know, and sluggish, and only
tolerably uncomfortable.
Then ensued the frightful denouement. It ensued almost without
warning.
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