Toora-toora-toora! Deafening!
"No," said I, speaking loud in order to hear myself. "That's the Last Trump."
Tooo-rraa!
II. — The last note jerked me out of my grave like a hooked minnow.
I saw my monument (rather a mean little affair, and I wished I knew who'd done it), and the old elm tree and the sea view vanished like a puff of steam, and then all about me—a multitude no man could number, nations, tongues, kingdoms, peoples—children of all the ages, in an amphitheatral space as vast as the sky. And over against us, seated on a throne of dazzling white cloud, the Lord God and all the host of his angels. I recognised Azrael by his darkness and Michael by his sword, and the great angel who had blown the trumpet stood with the trumpet still half raised.
III. — "Prompt," said the little man beside me. "Very prompt. Do you see the angel with the book?"
He was ducking and craning his head about to see over and under and between the souls that crowded round us. "Everybody's here," he said. "Everybody. And now we shall know—
"There's Darwin," he said, going off at a tangent. "He'll catch it! And there—you see?—that tall, important-looking man trying to catch the eye of the Lord God, that's the Duke. But there's a lot of people one doesn't know.
"Oh! there's Priggles, the publisher. I have always wondered about printers' overs. Priggles was a clever man ... But we shall know now—even about him.
"I shall hear all that. I shall get most of the fun before ... My letter's S."