CHAPTER VIII
Someone pulled at his sleeve. Well, well,” said this someone, “we mustn’t sleep any more, eh?” Prokop opened his eyes and saw an old gentleman with a pink-bald head and a white beard, gold spectacles up on his forehead, and an extraordinarily bright look in his eyes. “No more sleep, my friend,” he said. “You’ve done that long enough; you don’t want to wake up in the next world.”
Prokop looked darkly at the old gentleman; he wanted to dream on a little longer. “What do you want?” he said finally in an irritated tone. “And . . . with whom have I the honour? . . .”
The old gentleman burst out laughing. “Dr. Thomas, if you please. . . . You haven’t yet deigned to recognize me, eh? But don’t bother about that. What may your name be?”
“Prokop,” said the invalid ungraciously.
“Well, well,” said the doctor contentedly. “I thought that you were the Sleeping Beauty. And now, Mr. Engineer,” he said energetically, “we must have a look at you. Don’t get cross.” He whisked a thermometer from under Prokop’s armpit and made a self-satisfied noise. “Ninety-nine. You’re like a fly, man. We must feed you up, what? Don’t move.”
Prokop felt on his chest a bald pate and a cold ear, which moved from one shoulder to the other
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