brooding fabric of terror—he could not form the slightest conception. Outlawry, piracy, smugglery, were all goals too small for such operations.
His thoughts seemed to be physical things trying to clamber up the smooth polished side of an enormous steel plate. They made not the slightest progress. The more he thought, the more unaccountable all phases of the question became.
In absolute perplexity, he turned to the Englishman at his side. He could just make out the blur of Caradoc's face.
“Have you a theory about this, Smith?” he asked in a low voice.
The Englishman nodded in silence.
“What is it?”
“I—I got my head hurt awhile ago. I believe I'm delirious—dreaming.”
Leonard thought this over without any feeling of amusement. “That doesn't explain why I see it too,” he objected gravely. “Nothing wrong with my head—that I know of.” He tried the time honored experiment of pinching himself.
