There was much more talk before bedtime. Mr Tulliver naturally wanted to hear all the particulars of Tom’s trading adventures, and he listened with growing excitement and delight. He was curious to know what had been said on every occasion; if possible, what had been thought; and Bob Jakin’s part in the business threw him into peculiar outbursts of sympathy with the triumphant knowingness of that remarkable packman. Bob’s juvenile history, so far as it had come under Mr Tulliver’s knowledge, was recalled with that sense of astonishing promise it displayed, which is observable in all reminiscences of the childhood of great men. It was well that there was this interest of narrative to keep under the vague but fierce sense of triumph over Wakem, which would otherwise have been the channel his joy would have rushed into with dangerous force. Even as it was, that feeling from time to time gave threats of its ultimate mastery, in sudden bursts of irrelevant exclamation. It was long before Mr Tulliver got to sleep that night; and the sleep, when it came, was filled with vivid dreams. At half-past five o’clock in the morning, when Mrs Tulliver was already rising, he alarmed her by starting up with a sort of smothered shout, and looking round in a bewildered way at the walls of the bedroom. “What’s the matter, Mr Tulliver?” said his wife. He looked at her, still with a puzzled expression, and said at last: “Ah!—I was dreaming—did I make a noise?—I thought I’d got hold of him.” Chapter VII. A Day of Reckoning