It is of course ridiculous to say that the world came to an end before Middleton’s question had been propounded, but that is what seemed to happen. The earth seemed to vomit dust, flame and smoke, and I seemed to feel myself being carried away. Ages later I awoke. I turned my head, and then said to myself—
“Pettingill, you have been knocked topsy-turvy.”
I really had. I seemed to be trying to stand on my head in wet clay, although in reality I found that I was reclining, head down, on the side of a bank of what might be termed an abandoned water-course.
Modesty forbids that I tell what clothing is missing from my person. I managed to regain my natural poise, and turned sufficiently to allow my feet to slide down.
Near me is a section of the tent containing the red-flannel patch, and as I take stock of my surroundings that patch seemed to loosen, and from out through the aperture emerges the head of Professor Middleton.
“My dear fellow, are you all right?” I asked.
He looked at me in a dazed sort of a way, and then spat out—along with a mouthful of clay:
“Go to ——! What do you think this is—a ladies’ cemetery?”
I could readily see that he was speaking from his subconscious mind, quoting from Dirty Shirt’s reply to me. He got to his feet, not without visible effort, and we both looked at Dirty Shirt and Ike. Their gaze seemed inquiring, but I was as much at sea as they.
“We are still alive, as you may see,” I volunteered.