Back before the shock, staggering beneath the weight, Mr. Marrapit went with digging heels. They could not match the pace of that swift blow upon his chest. Its backward speed outstripped them. With shattering thud he plumped heavily to his full length upon the floor; Mrs. Major pressed him to earth.
But that shock was a whack on the head for Old Tom that temporarily quieted him. “What has happened?” Mrs. Major asked, clinging tightly.
Mr. Marrapit gasped: “Release my neck. Remove your arms.”
“Where are we?”
“You are upon my chest. I am prone beneath you. Release!”
“It's all dark,” Mrs. Major cried; gripped firmer.
“It is not dark. I implore movement. Our juxtaposition unnaturally compromises us. It is abhorrent.”
Mrs. Major opened the eyes she had tightly closed during that staggering journey and that shattering fall. She loosed her clutch; got to her knees; thence tottered to a chair. That infamous Old Tom raised his head again; tickled her brain with misty fingers.
Mr. Marrapit painfully rose. He put a sympathetic hand upon the seat of his injury; with the other took up the candle. He regarded Mrs. Major; suspiciously sniffed the air, pregnant with strange fumes; again regarded his late burden.
Upon her face that infamous Old Tom set a beaming smile,