That instant, wherever the weight of his hand had been, the prickling began. His hand, too, began to smart.
Something was happening. A vague discomfort spread over the skin of his entire body.
He blinked his eyes. The sight was dim and blurred. He could not see clearly the holes in which to put his telephone plugs and, when he picked one up, his fingers were burning so that he let them fall.
Something was happening.
His flesh felt raw about his neck where the collar touched it, and where his skin had touched the chair, fire seemed to be eating him.
A black and purple light was blinding him, heavy fingers pressed on his eyeballs.
Gropingly he managed to find the wire to headquarters.
"I'm going blind," he mumbled, in a thick voice he could not recognize as his own, "send relief."
Relief came half an hour later and the men found Horace on the floor, his clothing half-torn from his body and his shrill screams sunk into hard, husky moanings.
The stretcher-bearers took him to the nearest dressing station.