He stood gazing up at the statue. The clouds behind it moved and gave it the appearance of moving. It was very certain that the sword moved. . . . “England expects. . . .” He gazed fascinated. A little crowd gathered. Men and women stood around and behind him and gazed up. He was aware of them, and he said:
“Idiots.”
But he could not move. The crowd spread over the pavement and blocked the way. A policeman appeared and moved them on. He jostled Old Mole.
“Move on, there. You’re causing an obstruction.”
Old Mole stared at him stupidly.
The officer spoke to him again, but made no impression. Old Mole stared at the hotel as though he were trying to remember something about it, but he did not move. The officer hailed a taxi, bundled him into it, and drove with him to the police station. In the charge room there was confabulation, and Old Mole gaped round him: the furniture, the large men in uniform swam mistily before him. One of the men approached him sympathetically, and he heard a voice say:
“Can’t make nothink of it, sir.”
His brain fastened on that as expressing something that it was trying to get clear. He felt a slight relaxation of the numbness that was upon him.
Another voice said:
“What’s your name?”