“You ass!” said the Devil. “They’ll only laugh at you! The whole thing’s a fraud, anyway. Let them find out for themselves. Oliver Lodge, Conan Doyle, and the rest of the precious crew are victims in the same way.”
“I won’t,” said I. “I’m going to tell them.” I got up and dressed slowly.
“See here,” said the Devil. “What you gave them last night was something new to talk about. Carry on! It does them good. It sets them thinking. Carry on!”
“And what sort of a swine will I look when they find me out?” said I.
“But they won’t,” said the Devil.
“But they will—they must,” said I, and opened the door.
On the landing outside was our “Wardie,” once of America, doing Müller’s exercises to get the stiffness out of his wounded shoulder. That was a Holy Rite, which nothing was allowed to interrupt. But to-day he stopped and faced me. I think my Devil must have entered into him.
“Hello, Bones, you sly dog!” said he.[[2]]
“What’s up, Wardie?”
“Oh, you don’t get me with your larks,” he said, grinning at me. “I know you, you old leg-puller!”