A sort of nervous fever. It’ll be gone before morning.”
Prokop knitted his brows in the effort to remember. “I know,” he said carefully, after a moment. “Listen, some one must throw that box into the river. So that it won’t explode.”
“Don’t worry. Now stop talking.”
“Perhaps I could sit up. Aren’t I heavy?”
“No, lie down.”
“—and you’ve got my chemistry notebook,” Prokop remembered suddenly.
“Yes, you’ll get it back. But now stay quiet, do you hear?”
“My head’s so heavy.”
Meanwhile the cab was rattling up Jecna Street. Thomas was softly whistling a tune and looking out of the window. Prokop was breathing heavily and moaning quietly. The fog made the pavements damp and insinuated itself under one’s coat with its cold, wet slime. It was late and the streets were deserted.
“Here we are,” said Thomas loudly. The cab bumped more noisily over a square and turned off to the right. “Wait, Prokop, can you manage a couple of steps? I’ll help you.”
With an effort Thomas dragged his guest up to the second floor. Prokop seemed to himself to be without weight, and allowed himself to be quickly wafted up the stairs; but Thomas was breathing heavily and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
“See, I’m like a thread,” said Prokop, surprised.
“Well,” said Thomas, panting, and opened the door of his flat.
