A buzz and hum go up around me, as if the boys were so many bluebottles.

A cloggy sensation of the lukewarm fat of meat is upon me (we dined an hour or two ago), and my head is as heavy as so much lead.

I would give the world to go to sleep.

I sit with my eye on Mr.Creakle, blinking at him like a young owl; when sleep overpowers me for a minute, he still looms through my slumber, ruling those ciphering-books, until he softly comes behind me and wakes me to plainer perception of him, with a red ridge across my back.
Here I am in the playground, with my eye still fascinated by him, though I can't see him.

The window at a little distance from which I know he is having his dinner, stands for him, and I eye that instead.