"Oo-o-o, sir-r," said Chapple. But he felt at the time that it was not
much of a repartee. After dinner there was the usual interview with
Mr. Seymour.

"You were late again this morning," he said.

"Yes, sir," said Chapple.

"Two hundred lines."

"Yes, sir."

The thing was becoming monotonous.

Chapple pulled himself together. This must stop. He had said that
several times previously, but now he meant it. Nor poppy, nor
mandragora, nor all the drowsy syrups of the world should make him
oversleep himself again. This time he would try a combination of
schemes.

Before he went to bed that night he put his watch on half an hour,
wound it up, and placed it on a chair at his bedside. Then he seized
his rug and all the blankets except one, and tore them off. Then he
piled them in an untidy heap in the most distant corner of the room.
He meant to put temptation out of his reach. There should be no genial
warmth on this occasion.

Nor was there. He woke at six feeling as if he were one solid chunk of
ice. He put up with it in a torpid sort of way till seven. Then he