He sprang to his feet in his excitement. He was wearing a loose-fitting suit and what his master might call a lower middle-class hat.
"And now I'm going to do all the things I've always wanted to do. A happy marriage; well-ordered life in the suburbs; warm slippers in the fender, and all that that stands for; kinemas, perhaps, and bowls. An allotment ..."
"But," I objected, "this History won't occupy him for ever. There should be only about sixteen more parts. He'll have you out again next autumn."
"But Wells is getting the Suburban idea too." He was standing right over me, glaring horribly with excitement. The train had entered a tunnel and he was shouting bravely against the din. "Look in Part I. He acknowledges the help he has received from Mrs. Wells. And her watchful criticism. That from him! I tell you I am free—free!"
He was shaking me by the shoulders now, his face close to mine. "I shall have my allotment. Prize parsnips—giant marrows!"
"Don't be too sure," I yelled—the tunnel seemed endless. "Remember poor old Sherlock. Doyle raised him from the dead. And you"—my voice rising to a scream—"he'll have you out—out—out!"
* * * * *
As I came to I heard my dentist remark to the doctor that I always had been a bad patient under gas.