Pengelly nodded, and they parted, the miner making haste back to his cottage, where he found that Geoffrey had not stirred, neither did he move all that night, while Pengelly dozed beside him in a chair.
It seemed as if he would never wake, and the probabilities are that a man with a less vigorous constitution would never have woke again, so powerful was the drug thrown with reckless hand into the brandy by the ignorant man.
In fact it was ten o’clock the next morning before Geoffrey started up and gazed wonderingly at Pengelly.
“You’ve woke up at last, sir,” said the miner, with a reproachful look.
“At last? What do you mean? Good heavens! How my head throbs.”
“It was a sorry trick to do, Master Trethick, and not a man’s part, to go and drown your brain like the pit.”
“Look here, Pengelly, my head’s all in a whirl. I’m ill. I hardly know what I am saying. How came I here?”
“I carried you here mostly, Master Trethick, sir, after you come away from An Morlock.”
“Did I go to An Morlock?”
“Yes, sir, I s’pose so—to say the mine was flooded.”