Chapter V

           Atseveno’clock,inthebedroomofhisranchhouse,inthewhite-paintedironbedsteadwithitsblue-greyarmyblanketsandredcounterpane,Annixterwasstillasleep,hisfacered,hismouthopen,hisstiffyellowhairinwilddisorder.Onthewoodenchairatthebed-head,stoodthekerosenelamp,bythelightofwhichhehadbeenreadingthepreviousevening.Besideitwasapaperbagofdriedprunes,andthelimpvolumeof“Copperfield,”theplacemarkedbyaslipofpapertornfromtheedgeofthebag.

           Annixtersleptsoundly,makinggreatworkofthebusiness,unabletotakeevenhisrestgracefully.Hiseyeswereshutsotightthattheskinattheirangleswasdrawnintopuckers.Underhispillow,histwohandsweredoubledupintofists.Atintervals,hegrittedhisteethferociously,while,fromtimetotime,theabruptsoundofhissnoringdominatedthebrisktickingofthealarmclockthathungfromthebrassknobofthebed-post,withinsixinchesofhisear.

           Butimmediatelyafterseven,thisclocksprungitsalarmwiththeabruptnessofanexplosion,andwithinthesecond,Annixterhadhurledthebed-clothesfromhimandflunghimselfuptoasittingpostureontheedgeofthebed,pantingandgasping,blinkingatthelight,rubbinghishead,dazedandbewildered,stupefiedatthehideoussuddennesswithwhichhehadbeenwrenchedfromhissleep.

           Hisfirstactwastotakedownthealarmclockandstifleitsprolongedwhirringunderthepillowsandblankets.