"See," said the nearest green man. "I told you so. And don't take on so," he added in alarm. "You'll dislocate your jaw."
Thompson turned his back to the vision and went into the cupboard. He poured a shot of rye and downed it in one quick movement. The bottle in his hand, he sat down on the edge of the bed, regaining his composure.
"Why do you do that?" inquired the gnome with curiosity.
"If I'm going to go on seeing you," Thompson explained, "I may as well be drunk. It helps."
"You mean you still attribute our existence to the effects of alcohol?" inquired the other.
"Oh no," Thompson denied vigorously. "To the bitters."
"You jest," said the gnome in hurt tones. "Don't you want to become a great author?"
"Certainly," Thompson agreed hastily. "You mean you have more ideas?"
"An infinite number," said the green man, waving a deprecatory hand. "We thought of an excellent novel," he added, "while you slept last night. Do you want to hear it?"
"Of course!" Thompson jerked on his shorts. "Wait, though. I need breakfast first." He writhed into a shirt.