"Me?"

"Oh, it'll be all right now that yu' know how it is." The
Virginian's drawl was full of assurance.

There was a second pause, after which the drummer said.

"Tell me again how it is."

The Virginian answered very drowsily: "Oh, just don't let your
arm or your laig touch me if I go to jumpin' around. I'm dreamin'
of Indians when I do that. And if anything touches me then, I'm
liable to grab my knife right in my sleep."

"Oh, I understand," said the drummer, clearing his throat. "Yes."

Steve was whispering delighted oaths to himself, and in his joy
applying to the Virginian one unprintable name after another.

We listened again, but now no further words came. Listening very
hard, I could half make out the progress of a heavy breathing,
and a restless turning I could clearly detect. This was the
wretched drummer. He was waiting. But he did not wait long. Again
there was a light creak, and after it a light step. He was not
even going to put his boots on in the fatal neighborhood of the
dreamer. By a happy thought Medicine Bow formed into two lines,
making an avenue from the door. And then the commercial traveller
forgot his Consumption Killer. He fell heavily over it.