The Saint’s voice loosened off uncertainly. It wasn’t from anything that Flane had said or done. It was from something that came up within himself: a recollection, an idea — two ideas — something that was trying to form itself in his mind against the train of his thought, that suddenly softened his own assurance and his attention at the same time.
At that instant Flane pushed lurchingly against him, and the bar stool started to topple. Off balance, the Saint made a wild attempt to get at least one foot on the ground and get a foundation from which he could hit. It was too much of a contortion even for him, Flane’s fist smashed against his jaw — not shatteringly, but hard enough to put new acceleration into his fall. As he went down, the next stool hit him on the back of the head, and then for an uncertain interval there was nothing but a thunderous blackness through which large engines drove round and round...
8
He woke up in a surprising lucidity, as if he had only dozed for a moment — except for a throbbing ache that swelled up in waves from the base of his brain. He woke up so clearly that he could lay still for a moment and take full advantage of the wet towel that the bartender was swabbing over his face.
“Thanks,” he said. “Do I look as stupid as I feel?”
“You’re okay,” said the bartender, and added without intention, “How d’ya feel?”
“Fine.”
The Saint stood up. For a second he thought his head was going to fall off; then it righted itself.
“What happened?” asked the bartender.
“I slipped.”