"It must be him I drove a couple of times," said the driver; "he had a
knobbed stick."
This brought the man vividly before me, and I
said, "Ha, ha! I suppose no one has ever yet seen
the man without a knobbed stick in his hand, of
that you can be certain, quite certain."
Yes, it was clear that it was the same man he had driven. He recognized
him--and he drove so that the horse's shoes struck sparks as they touched
the stones.
All through this phase of excitement I had not for one second lost my
presence of mind. We pass a policeman, and I notice his number is 69. This
number struck me with such vivid clearness that it penetrated like a
splint into my brain--69--accurately 69. I wouldn't forget it.
I leant back in the vehicle, a prey to the wildest fancies; crouched under
the hood so that no one could see me. I moved my lips and commenced to I
talk idiotically to myself. Madness rages through my brain, and I let it
rage. I am fully conscious that I am succumbing to influences over which I
have no control. I begin to laugh, silently, passionately, without a trace
of cause, still merry and intoxicated from the couple of glasses of ale I
have drunk. Little by little my excitement abates, my calm returns more
and more to me. I feel the cold in my sore finger, and I stick it down
inside my collar to warm it a little. At length we reach Tomtegaden. The
driver pulls up.
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