"I'll tell you what to do," said his friend, Brodie, when consulted on
the point over a quiet pot of tea that afternoon. "You ought to sleep
without so many things on the bed. How many blankets do you use, for
instance?"

"I don't know," said Chapple. "As many as they shove on."

It had never occurred to him to reckon up the amount of his bedclothes
before retiring to rest.

"Well, you take my tip," said Brodie, "and only sleep with one on.
Then the cold'll wake you in the morning, and you'll get up because
it'll be more comfortable than staying in bed."

This scientific plan might have worked. In fact, to a certain extent
it did work. It woke Chapple in the morning, as Brodie had predicted;
but it woke him at the wrong hour. It is no good springing out of bed
when there are still three hours to breakfast. When Chapple woke at
five the next morning, after a series of dreams, the scenes of which
were laid mainly in the Arctic regions, he first sneezed, then he
piled upon the bed everything he could find, including his boots, and
then went to sleep again. The genial warmth oozed through his form, and
continued to ooze until he woke once more, this time at eight-fifteen.
Breakfast being at eight, it occurred to him that his position with
Mr. Seymour was not improved. While he was devoting a few moments'
profound meditation to this point the genial warmth got in its fell
work once again. When he next woke, the bell was ringing for school.
He lowered the world's record for rapid dressing, and was just in time
to accompany the tail of the procession into the form-room.