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XXVII. THE AWAKENING OF MR. HOOPDRIVER
Mr. Hoopdriver stirred on his pillow, opened his eyes, and, staring
unmeaningly, yawned. The bedclothes were soft and pleasant. He turned
the peaked nose that overrides the insufficient moustache, up to the
ceiling, a pinkish projection over the billow of white. You might see it
wrinkle as he yawned again, and then became quiet. So matters remained
for a space. Very slowly recollection returned to him. Then a shock
of indeterminate brown hair appeared, and first one watery grey eye
a-wondering, and then two; the bed upheaved, and you had him, his thin
neck projecting abruptly from the clothes he held about him, his face
staring about the room. He held the clothes about him, I hope I may
explain, because his night-shirt was at Bognor in an American-cloth
packet, derelict. He yawned a third time, rubbed his eyes, smacked his
lips. He was recalling almost everything now. The pursuit, the hotel,
the tremulous daring of his entry, the swift adventure of the inn
yard, the moonlight--Abruptly he threw the clothes back and rose into
a sitting position on the edge of the bed. Without was the noise of
shutters being unfastened and doors unlocked, and the passing of hoofs
and wheels in the street. He looked at his watch. Half-past six. He
surveyed the sumptuous room again.
"Lord!" said Mr. Hoopdriver. "It wasn't a dream, after all."
"I wonder what they charge for these Juiced rooms!" said Mr. Hoopdriver,
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