We brought the "contrapshun" in.
"Splendid!" said my host.
"Impossible," I thought, trying to press down the prickly wire where
the mattress was torn.
"No doubt you are hungry," my friend resumed. I assured him I was not
in the least hungry, but despite my protestations he ran off to bring
me something to eat. I felt sorry; for I thought he might be bringing
me a substantial supper, and I had already made a good meal about an
hour before. What was more, he lived at some distance, and I did not
care to trouble the good man, or for him to waken up his wife who by
that hour was probably sleeping.
However, he was gone, and there was nothing to be done. I laid some
hay on the creaking sorrow of a bed, and endeavoured to bend to safety
the wilderness of torn and rusty wire. I spread my blanket over the
whole and gingerly committed my body to the comfortable-seeming couch.
Imagine how the bed became an unsteady hammock of wire and how the
contrivance creaked at each vibration of my body. I lay peacefully,
however, looked at the array of cement barrels confronting me, and
waited for my host. I expected a plate of chicken and a bottle of
wine, and was gradually feeling myself converted to the idea that I
wouldn't mind a nice tasty supper even though I had made my evening
meal.
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