Since the old man had been resolutely driving into the City, against much warning and advice, all had been a blank. Now he was awakening amid the most unpleasant sensations: his limbs heavy as lead, his head curiously light. At first he squinted at the strange objects around him, struggling to focus them aright, like a semi-conscious infant. As his sight adjusted itself, he found that there were really many beds—a row of beds. He began to count them, but before he had reached two figures he felt sick and faint, and instinctively turned back for help.
A lithe strong arm was round him, a glass with some cordial was at his lips. He swallowed the draught, and helplessly subsided.
As he revived he began to think.
“This is real,” was his first thought. “What has happened to me?”
After the thought had hummed about in his mind like a spinning-top, it subsided, tottered, and tumbled. He, as it were, picked it up.
“Who am I?” he stammered, suddenly, to Hugh, who was sitting near, his eyes alert. He had not meant that, but it came out higgledy-piggledy, somehow, and he listened to his own voice wonderingly.
“You are quite safe, Sir Roderick Pym,” said Hugh, gently. “A few hours ago you were thrown out of your carriage, and were brought here. You have been slightly—faint—but you will soon be all right again, and able to go home.”
“A—hospital!” Sir Roderick looked round with evident disgust. “Who—knows?” he added, with a glance of alarm.
Hugh hastened to relate details, slowly, clearly, while the nurse administered some light nourishment.
Sir Roderick listened attentively. The only question he asked was if his mare, Kitty, had suffered.