Matthews sat down. He started well, but he had no guide except his own general position and soon went hopelessly astray. “It would need a lot of practice,” he said.
“Seen me practising, any of you?” I asked.
“We have not,” said the Doc., “an’ what’s more we know you haven’t got the patience for it. Besides, you couldn’t have told us all these things we’ve had out of the board.”
“The thing that knocks the memory theory on the head,” said Price, “is the fact of the board being moved about after you were blindfolded. No amount of memory would help you if you couldn’t see.”
“I couldn’t see—I didn’t even try,” I answered with perfect truth.
“Besides, you old ass,” Price went on with a grin, “we know you forget your tie as often as not, and you forgot your lines at the Panto, though you’d only about five, and you nearly left out the Good Fairy’s song altogether.” He began to laugh. “The idea of accusing you of having a memory, Bones, is too blessed ridiculous for words. It’s worse than believing in the Spook.”
“You needn’t rub it in,” said I. “If I did not remember my exact lines at the Panto, I made others just as good, I haven’t got a blooming photographic snapshot camera of a memory like Merriman’s, but it’s as good as my neighbour’s, anyway.”
By now they were all laughing at me. I quoted poetry I had learned at school to prove I had a memory. They only laughed the more.
“What’s the day of the week?” the Doc. asked suddenly, as if he had forgotten an engagement.
“Hanged if I know,” said I. It was easy for a prisoner to forget the day of the week.