Everett in his shirt sleeves was piling on a table a mass of draperies which he had taken from the wall. He was covered with dust, but his face was full of joyous excitement.
“Yes, my good friend—straight for Utopia now!
“‘Get on board, chil’en,
Get on board, chil’en,
For there’s room for many a more.’”
Everett trolled out the old negro chorus with hilarious enjoyment.
“Quos Deus vult perdere—” began Ward, grimly.
“Oh, we’re all mad, you know. We are simply not so mad as the rest of you,” interrupted Everett, gayly. “We have intervals of sanity, and are taking advantage of one of them to get out of the mad-house, leaving you other fellows to keep up your unprofitable strife with phantoms by yourselves, while we actually—yes, we even dare to believe it—live. Think of that, Ward, if you have the imagination!” Ward shook his head. “No, you haven’t; that is so. If you had, you could not have listened to Gregory unmoved.”
“Confound Gregory,” muttered Ward. “What did you ever get the man here for, turning our world upside down!”
“That has been the occupation of seers and prophets from the beginning, I believe,” retorted Everett, carelessly.