H G Wells

When the Sleeper Wakes H G Wells

One afternoon, at low water, Mr. Isbister, a young artist lodging at Boscastle, walked from thatplace to the picturesque cove of Pentargen, desiring to examine the caves there. Halfway down theprecipitous path to the Pentargen beach he came suddenly upon a man sitting in an attitude ofprofound distress beneath a projecting mass of rock. The hands of this man hung limply over hisknees, his eyes were red and staring before him, and his face was wet with tears. He glanced round at Isbister's footfall. Both men were disconcerted, Isbister the more so, and, tooverride the awkwardness of his involuntary pause, he remarked, with an air of mature conviction, that the weather was hot for the time of year."Very," answered the stranger shortly, hesitated a second, and added in a colourless tone, "I can'tsleep."Isbister stopped abruptly. "No?" was all he said, but his bearing conveyed his helpful impulse."It may sound incredible," said the stranger, turning weary eyes to Isbister's face and emphasizinghis words with a languid hand, "but I have had no sleep-no sleep at all for six nights.""Had advice?""Yes. Bad advice for the most part. Drugs. My nervous system.... They are all very well for the runof people. It's hard to explain. I dare not take... sufficiently powerful drugs.""That makes it difficult," said Isbister. He stood helplessly in the narrow path, perplexed what to do. Clearly the man wanted to talk. Anidea natural enough under the circumstances, prompted him to keep the conversation going. "I'venever suffered from sleeplessness myself," he said in a tone of commonplace gossip, "but in thosecases I have known, people have usually found something-""I dare make no experiments.