"Why didn't you come before?" said the Professor irately.
"I'm not your servant. I was thinking how I'd like to chop you into mincemeat, Blyth, and scatter you to the crows. My head's splitting—splitting, do you hear? I shall go dotty, looking at this infernal heap of fire. Those moving specks of light behind are all alive, Blyth. They're grinning at me. They're choking me. And there you sit like a scientific panjandrum with a little round button on top. And you call yourself a Christian and a respectable family man. You are a disgrace to your country. Come down and let me out. Send for the police. I don't care."
"Smithers," said the Professor, "I'm ashamed of you. A horse soldier going on like a nurserymaid! I shall not send for the police. You agreed to this experiment, and you've got to see it through. Please remember that. How's your pulse?"
"Blyth, it's 120! It's ticking like a clock. I believe it's going to strike."
"Keep cool, Smithers. Have your hands a bluish tinge?"
"They seem to be green."
"Green? Preposterous!"
"They may be blue really. I'm colour blind."