If a philosopher like Mr. Neeven, who had passed through many years of most exciting life, could be surprised, he was when, coming around the planticrü, he stumbled upon Tom Holtum, spread out at ease, and unconscious of his position.
The man stood stock still for some minutes, contemplating the prostrate figure, until a grim smile gradually spread over his melancholy countenance; then stooping, he touched Tom's face and said, "Wake up, lad, wake up!"
Tom's eyes were wide open in a moment, and he sat up and stared at the disturber of his repose.
"What are you doing here?" Mr. Neeven asked, in his usual stern tones, which did not help to clarify Tom's understanding of his own position. He stammered some very incoherent words, which were no explanation at all, and did not even attempt to get on his feet.
Mr. Neeven was not a patient man. "Get up," he said, "and come with me. I must know what you mean by skulking about my house in the night-time."
Tom rose slowly, and then discovered that he was in the near vicinity of Trullyabister.
"This is a pretty fix," thought he, as he followed Mr. Neeven. "I believe I'll bolt!"
But a moment's reflection showed him how futile any attempt at escape would be, so he silently proceeded in Mr. Neeven's wake, repenting him sorely for being so foolish as to fall asleep that night.
When they were in the dismal apartment where the recluse spent the greater part of his time poring over books and nursing his gloomy thoughts, he pointed to a chair, and taking one himself, said briefly—
"Now give a proper account of yourself."