Lennie quickly lit a candle, and to Jack's agonized relief, there was the cubby, the bed, the walls, all of natural dimensions, and Tom and Lennie in their nightshirts standing by his bed.
"What's a-matter, ol' dear?" Lennie asked caressively.
"My head! I thought it was getting so big the room wouldn't hold it."
"Aw! go on now!" said Lennie. "Y' face is a bit puffy, but y' head's same as ever it was."
Jack couldn't believe it. He was so sensually convinced that his head had grown enormous, enormous, enormous.
He stared at Lennie and Tom in dismay. Lennie stroked his hair softly.
"There's y' ol' nut!" he said. "Tain't no bigger 'n it ever was. Just exactly same life-size."
Gradually Jack let himself be convinced. And at last he let them blow the candle out. He went to sleep.
He woke again with a frenzy working in him. He had pain, too. But far worse than the pain was the tearing of the raging discomfort, the frenzy of dislocation. And in his stiff swollen head, there was something he remembered but could not drag into light. What was it? What was it? In the frenzy of struggle to know, he went vague.
Then it came to him, words as plain as knives.