About an hour had passed, and Mr Smith was mentally busy making a drawing of a grim old corbel—a most grotesque head in the cathedral close, when he was terribly bothered because the moss-covered, time-eaten old stony face would not keep still: now it winked, now it screwed up its face, now it thrust its tongue first into one cheek and then into the other, making wrinkles here, there, and everywhere, till he put down his pencil, and asked what it meant. But instead of answering, the face nodded and came down nearer and nearer, backing him further and further away, till he was shut up in one of the cloisters, and hammering at the door to get out.
“Open the door!” he roared again and again; till he woke to find that it was somebody outside knocking at his door and thundering to get in.
“Here, open the door now, or it’ll be the wuss for yer!” growled a hoarse voice, whereupon tearing off his cap, Mr Smith leaped out of bed, and into some garments, and then stood shivering and wondering whether the place was on fire.
“What’s all the noise?” cried some one in the gallery.
“Madman, sir, outer the ’sylum, and keepers want to ketch him.”
“Poor fellow,” was the response; and then came the demand for admittance, and the thundering again.
“Go away!” cried Mr Smith, in an agitated and very cracked voice. “Go away, there’s no one here!”
“Ho! ain’t there,” said the gruff voice; and then there was a suppressed titter. “You’re sure it’s him?” said another voice.
“Oh, yes,” said some one in a high treble; “he’s got his head shaved.”
“Right you are,” said the same gruff voice, and then Mr Smith turned all of a cold perspiration.