Mr. Montagu Babbacombe remained uncovered.
It was then ten. The fact was announced by a clock in the building; and Mr. FitzHoward stood with his watch in his hand.
'Ladies and Gentlemen, Mr. Montagu Babbacombe will now awake.'
The doctors, if they were doctors, pressed forward. We all craned our necks.
It seemed inconceivable that after a slumber of thirty days--and one so very much like death--the man could wake to an appointed minute. But he did. Scarcely had Mr. FitzHoward ceased to speak than, with the most natural air in the world, raising his hand, he passed it over his face, as one is sometimes apt to do when awaking. He opened his eyes. He sat up.
To be greeted by a storm of cheers. Which, however, presently died away, as it was realised that there was that in his appearance which was hardly in harmony with such a demonstration. He gazed about him with, on his pallid features, a look of dazed inquiry; as if he wondered where he was. Mr. FitzHoward spoke to him.
'I'm glad to see you, Mr. Babbacombe. I hope you're comfortable, sir. Here is Mr. Manager.'
The manager extended his hand.
'Feeling rested after your sound sleep?'
Mr. Babbacombe apparently did not notice the held-out hand. He answered in a curious monotone, still about him that air of vacancy. The sound of his voice set me all of a twitter.