"Yes, sir," answered the sleeping man.
"Do you hate cats?"
"Yes, sir, I do."
The professor made more passes, waited a few minutes; then made more, and again asked sternly: "Monson, do you hate cats?"
There was no answer.
The professor looked at us with a smile. "I think I have found him," he said. He again began the hair twitching, and after a few moments again questioned him. And the question brought Sullivan and me, gasping and choking, to our feet.
"Devlin," he said, in a joking tone, "am I cutting your hair to your satisfaction?"
"You are not," answered the sleeper. "I was doggy enough before, but ye're making a hairless Mexican poodle o' me 'stead of a fox terrier."
"Devlin," shouted the professor, as he drew away his hands, "you are not a dog. You never have been a dog, and you never will be a dog. You are a man, and your name is not Monson. It never was Monson, and it never will be Monson. When you waken you will remember every event of your past life up to and after the time of the squall aboard the Chariot. You will remember everything. Wake up, Devlin, wake up, and don't count your trouble against me, old shipmate. I did not know my power then. I nearly drowned before that ship astern picked me up. Wake up, Devlin. Wake up."
The professor was making furious passes upward.