for human impatience; human impatience desperately twisted about, drew his watch out of his pocket and nervously kicked his feet about. One, two, three, four . . . telegraph posts. Trees, fields, trees, a watchman’s house, trees, the bank of a river, a fence and fields, Eleven-seventeen. Fields of turnips, women in blue aprons, a house, a little dog which took it into its head to race the train—fields—fields—fields. Eleven-seventeen. God, how the time stood still! Better to think of something; to close one’s eyes and count up to a thousand; to recite a paternoster or repeat some chemical formula. “We’re off, we’re off!” Eleven-eighteen. God! what is one to do?
Prokop started. “KRAKATIT” stared him in the eyes, until he grew frightened. Where was it? Aha! the man opposite was reading a paper and on the back was that announcement. “KRAKATIT! Will Eng. P. give his address? Carson, Poste Restante.” I wish that Mr. Carson would leave me alone, thought Eng. P.; all the same at the next station he bought all the papers which his country produced. It was in all of them and in all of them the same. “KRAKATIT! Will Eng. P. give his address? Carson, Poste Restante.” “My godfathers!” said Eng. P. to himself, “there’s some demand for me! But what does he want me for, when Thomas has sold him the secret?”
But instead of solving this fundamental problem he looked to see if he was observed, and then, perhaps for the hundredth time, drew out the familiar package. With all possible delays, delays which gave him acute pleasure, after all sorts of reflections
