naturally, and he stirs, and the doctor declares him to have come back from that inexplicable journey where he stopped on the dark road, and to be here.
Tom Tootle, who is nearest to the doctor when he says this, grasps the doctor fervently by the hand. Bob Glamour, William Williams, and Jonathan of the no surname, all shake hands with one another round, and with the doctor too. Bob Glamour blows his nose, and Jonathan of the no surname is moved to do likewise, but lacking a pocket handkerchief abandons that outlet for his emotion. Pleasant sheds tears deserving her own name, and her sweet delusion is at its height.
There is intelligence in his eyes. He wants to ask a question. He wonders where he is. Tell him.
“Father, you were run down on the river, and are at Miss Abbey Potterson’s.”
He stares at his daughter, stares all around him, closes his eyes, and lies slumbering on her arm.
The short-lived delusion begins to fade. The low, bad, unimpressible face is coming up from the depths of the river, or what other depths, to the surface again. As he grows warm, the doctor and the four men cool. As his lineaments soften with life, their faces and their hearts harden to him.
“He will do now,” says the doctor, washing his hands, and looking at the patient with growing disfavour.
“Many a better man,” moralizes Tom Tootle with a gloomy shake of the head, “ain’t had his luck.”
“It’s to be hoped he’ll make a better use of his life,” says Bob Glamour, “than I expect he will.”