There was Dicky Brown in the next bed, flat on his back, open-mouthed, snoring monotonously, like a muffled police rattle.
There was Graham minor on the other side, serenely wheezing up and down the scale, like a kettle simmering on the hob.

There opposite, among the big boys, lay Faulkner, with the moonshine on his pale face, his arms above his head, smirking even in his sleep.

And there was Parkin just beyond, with the sheet half throttling him, as usual, sprawling diagonally across his bed, and a bare foot sticking out at the end.

And here lay-- Hullo! My eyes opened and my teeth chattered faster.

Where _was_ Tempest?
His bed was next to Parkin's, but it was empty.