Dicky must certainly be fast asleep.
With considerably greater steadiness than he had yet achieved he returned
to the open door and peeped stealthily in.
Yes, Dick was there. He had flung himself down at the table on which he
had set the candle, and he was lying across it with his head on his arms.
Asleep of course! That could be the only explanation of such an attitude.
Yet Robin in the act of advancing, stopped in sudden doubt with a scared
backward movement, his eyes upon one of Dick's hands that was clenched
convulsively and quivering as if he were in pain. It certainly did not
look like the hand of a man asleep.
The next moment Robin's ungainly form had knocked against the door-handle
and Dick was sitting upright looking at him. His face was grey, he looked
unutterably tired, his mouth had the stark grimness of the man who
endures, asking nothing of Fate.
"Hullo, boy!" he said. "Why aren't you in bed?" Then seeing Robin's
unmistakably hang-dog air, "Oh, I forgot! Go on upstairs! I'm coming."
Robin turned about like a kicked dog. But the driving force stopped him
on the threshold. He stood a second or two, then turned again with a
species of sullen courage.
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