Matthews: “That’s put the lid on. Ask something else.”
Doc.: “Have you anything to say?” Answer: “WNSRYKXCBJ,” and so on, and so on, page after page of meaningless letters. It grew monotonous even for prisoners of war, and in time the less enthusiastic investigators dropped out. At the end of a fortnight only Price, Matthews, Doc. O’Farrell and myself were left. We were intrigued by the fact that the glass should move at all without our consciously pushing it—I shall never forget Alec Matthews’s cry of wonder the first time he felt the “life” in the glass—and we persevered.
THE OUIJA
Then our friend Gatherer came in. He said he didn’t care very much for this sort of thing, but he knew how to do it and would show us. He placed his fingers on the glass and addressed the Spook. We, as became novices, had always shown a certain respect in our manner of questioning the Unknown. Gatherer spoke as if he were addressing a defaulter, or a company on parade, with a ring in his voice which indicated he would stand no nonsense. And forthwith the glass began to talk sense. Its answers were short—usually no more than a “yes” or a “no”—but they were certainly understandable. Once more we were all intensely interested. Gatherer did more than add fuel to the waning fire of our enthusiasm. He presented us with his own spook-board, which he and another officer had made some months before, and used in secret. It was a piece of sheet iron on which the glass moved much more smoothly than on the tray or the table, and he suggested pasting down the letters in such a way that they could not be knocked off by the movement of the glass. Later on Matthews still further improved it by adding a raised “scantling” round the edge which prevented the glass from leaving the circle.
Gatherer was in great request, for without him we could get nothing, try we never so hard. But he would not come—he “disliked it”—he “had other things to do,” he “might come tomorrow,” and so on. Ah, Gatherer, you have much to answer for! Had you never shown us that intelligible replies could be obtained, I might have remained an honest little enquirer, happy in the mere moving of the glass. But now, mere movement was no longer satisfying. We were tired of our own company, and knew one another as only fellow-prisoners can. We wanted a chat with somebody “outside,” somebody with ideas culled beyond our prison walls, whose mind was not an open book to us, whose thoughts were not limited to the probable date of the end of the war or of the arrival of the next mail from home. It did not matter who it was—Julius Cæsar or Socrates, Christopher Columbus or Aspasia (it is true we rather hoped for Aspasia, especially the Doc.), but any old Tom, or Dick, or Harry would have been welcome. You ought to have known that, Gatherer, for you were a prisoner, too; but you were callous, and left us alone to record our meaningless X’s, and Y’s and Z’s.
After another week of failure we grew desperate. “If we get nothing to-night,” said Matthews, “we’ll chuck it.”
We tried hard, and got nothing.
“One more shot, Bones,” said the Doc., sitting down opposite me.
I glanced at him, and from him to Price and Matthews. Disappointment was written on every face. Success had seemed so near, and we had laboured so hard. Was this to end as so many of our efforts at amusement had ended, in utter boredom?