"It's absurd," said Mr. Wriford. "It's too ridiculous"; but in the midst of his laughter at it had a sudden return to Figure of Wriford who was the subject of it and cried out: "Oh, what shall I do? Oh, what shall I do?"
"Why, there you go!" cried Mr. Puddlebox. "There's the necessity of it. Fight against him, boy. Let him not beat you, nor any such. Quick now—O all ye—"
And Mr. Wriford groaned, then laughed in a nervous little spurt, then groaned again, then weakly quavered while Mr. Puddlebox strongly belled:
"O all ye spooks of the Lord, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and magnify Him for ever."
"Feel better?" questioned Mr. Puddlebox.
In the darkness only some stifled sounds answered him.
"Crying, loony?"
Only those sounds.
Mr. Puddlebox put out a large hand, felt for Mr. Wriford's hands and clasped it upon them. "Hold my hand, boy."
Sleep came to them.