“Right-o, Wardie,” said I, and went back into my room. My dander was up.
CHAPTER II
HOW THE CAMP TURNED SPIRITUALIST
I made up my mind to rag for an evening or two more and to face the music, when it came, in the proper spirit. There was a recognized form of punishment at Yozgad for a “rag.” It was a “posh.”[[3]] In my case, with Doc., Matthews, Price, and of course the Seaman (who always joined in on principle) as my torturers, I expected it would be a super-posh, and trembled accordin’. I had no doubt in my own mind that discovery would come very soon.
When evening came round, there were Alec, Doc., and Price waiting round the spook-board with their tongues out, wanting more “Sally.” I sat down with the unholy joy of the small boy preparing a snowball in ambush for some huge and superior person of uncertain temper, and with not a little of his fear of being found out before the snowball gets home on the target.
“Now, Doc.,” said I, trying to avert suspicion from myself, “don’t you get larking. I’m beginning to suspect you.”
“And I’m suspecting you,” he laughed. “Come on, ye old blackguard!”
We started, and for several minutes got nothing but a series of unintelligible letters. The reason for this was simple enough. The “medium’s” mind was blank. I hadn’t the foggiest notion of what to say, and could only push the glass about indiscriminately. Matthews and Price faithfully noted down every letter touched. This kept everybody happy, and as a matter of fact formed a useful precedent for future occasions.
“It’s there all right,” said Alec. “Keep it up, you fellows. We’ll get something soon.”
Gatherer came in, and after watching for a minute gave an order to the Spook in his parade voice: “Go round and look at your letters.”