The thought maddened him.  He remembered Rip Van Winkle; he recalled the Seven Sleepers of Ephesus; he thought of the afflicted woman whom he saw once at a menagerie in a trance, in which she had been for twenty years continuously, excepting when she awoke for a few moments at long intervals to ask for something to eat.  Perhaps when he and Mrs. Fogg were dead the baby might be rented to a menagerie, and be carried around the country as a spectacle.  The idea haunted him.  It made him miserable.  He tried for two or three hours to fix his mind upon his office-duties, but it was impossible.  He determined to go back to the house to ascertain if the baby had returned to consciousness.  When he got there, Mrs. Fogg was beginning to feel very uneasy.  She said,

“Isn’t it strange, Wilberforce, that the baby stays asleep?  He is not awake yet.  I suppose it is nervous exhaustion, poor darling! but I am a little worried about it.”

Mr. Fogg felt awfully.  He went up and jagged a pin into the baby’s leg quietly, so that his wife could not see him.  Still it lay there wrapped in slumber; and after repeating the experiment he abandoned himself to despair and went back to his office, uncertain whether to fly or to go home and confess the terrible truth to Mrs. Fogg.

In a couple of hours that lovely woman came in to see him.  She was scared and breathless: 

“Mr. Fogg, the baby is actually asleep yet, and I can’t rouse him.  I’ve shaken him, called to him and done everything, and he don’t stir.  What can be the matter with him?  I’m afraid something dreadful has happened to him.”

“Maybe he is sleeping up a lot ahead, so’s to stay awake at night some more,” said Mr. Fogg, with a feeble smile at his attempt at a joke.

“Wilberforce, you ought to be ashamed of yourself to trifle with such a matter!  S’pose the baby should die while it is in that condition?  I believe it is going to die, and I want you to go straight for the doctor.”

Mr. Fogg started at once, and in half an hour he reached the house in company with Dr. Gill.  The doctor examined the child carefully and said that it was a very queer case, but that, in his opinion, he must be under the influence of opium.

“Did you give him any while I was asleep last night, Mr. Fogg?” asked Mrs. Fogg, suspiciously and tearfully.

“Upon my word and honor I didn’t,” said Mr. Fogg, with the cold perspiration standing upon his forehead.

“Are you sure you didn’t give him anything?” demanded the mother, suddenly remembering that the baby became quiet while she was down stairs upon the preceding night.

“Maria, do you think I would deceive you?” asked Mr. Fogg, in agony.  “I’ll take my solemn oath that I did not give it a drop of medicine of any kind.”

“It is very remarkable—­very,” said the doctor.  “I don’t know that I ever encountered precisely such a case before.  I think I will call in Dr. Brown and consult with him about it.”