Henry Armstrong's burial did not convince him he was dead; he was always hard to persuade. Yet the evidence of his senses—lying on his back, hands tied, confined in darkness and silence—forced him to admit he was interred. Still, he believed himself merely gravely ill, feeling an invalid's apathy and a pathological indifference to his fate. Unconcerned, he fell asleep.
Overhead, on a dark summer night lit by distant lightning, three figures felt secure in the deserted cemetery. Two were medical students; the third was Jess, the cemetery's longtime handyman. They excavated the fresh grave with ease. As Jess unscrewed the coffin lid, a thunderclap shook the air, and Armstrong sat up calmly. The students fled in terror, but Jess remained.
At dawn, the pale and shaken students met at their college. "You saw it?" one cried. They found Jess waiting outside the dissecting-room. "I'm waiting for my pay," he said, grinning. Inside, on a table, lay Armstrong's body, his head bloodied from a spade blow.