The Country of the Blind

“Prompt,” said the little man beside me.  “Very prompt.  Do you see the angel with the book?”

He was ducking and craning his head about to see over and under and between the souls that crowded round us.  “Everybody’s here,” he said.  “Everybody.  And now we shall know—­

“There’s Darwin,” he said, going off at a tangent. “He’ll catch it!  And there—­you see?—­that tall, important-looking man trying to catch the eye of the Lord God, that’s the Duke.  But there’s a lot of people one doesn’t know.

“Oh! there’s Priggles, the publisher.  I have always wondered about printers’ overs.  Priggles was a clever man …  But we shall know now—­even about him.

“I shall hear all that.  I shall get most of the fun before … My letter’s S.”

He drew the air in between his teeth.

“Historical characters, too.  See?  That’s Henry the Eighth.  There’ll be a good bit of evidence.  Oh, damn!  He’s Tudor.”

He lowered his voice.  “Notice this chap, just in front of us, all covered with hair.  Paleolithic, you know.  And there again—­”

But I did not heed him, because I was looking at the Lord God.