He sounded as if he did; and looked it too. Putting his hand up to his head with the gesture of a tired child, he sank back upon the mattress.
'I want to rest,' he said.
We were still. He looked as if he had fallen asleep again, for good. Mr. FitzHoward dismissed the audience.
'Ladies and gentlemen, I have much pleasure in thanking you, on Mr. Montagu Babbacombe's behalf, for your attendance here, and I now wish you goodnight.'
The people began to file out. Men leaned over the mattress, and there was a whispered consultation. They spoke to him. He continued still--too still. A flask was produced and placed to his lips. He seemed to pay no attention to it whatever. The crowd showed a disposition to linger. The mattress was lifted from its place with him still on it, and borne through the departing spectators out of the room. When it had gone the audience dispersed more rapidly. I stayed on. Presently, when the place had grown comparatively empty, Mr. FitzHoward reappeared. He was buttonholed by half a dozen people at once. It seemed that they were making inquiries as to the awakened sleeper's condition. He answered them collectively, for our common benefit, in a loud voice.
'Mr. Montagu Babbacombe feels a little exhausted--as was only to be expected, having had nothing to eat or drink for thirty days, but he wishes me to say to any kind inquirer that he's all right, and that he confidently expects to feel very shortly as fit as ever he did. Now, gentlemen, I'm sorry to have to hurry you, but I must really ask you all to go.'
They went--he driving them in front of him, like a flock of sheep. I still stayed.
'How is he?' I asked.
As he looked at me there was something in his eyes which I did not understand.
'He'll be as right as rain in a minute or two.'