“WHO—ARE—YOU?” said the Doc. in sepulchral tones, and forthwith I was conscious of a tilting and a straining in the glass, and then, very slowly, it began to move in gradually widening circles. It touched a letter, and the whole company craned their necks to see it.
“B!” they whispered in chorus.
It touched another. “R!” said everybody.
“I believe it is going to write ‘Brown,’” said Dorling, and the movement suddenly stopped.
“There ye go spoilin’ everything with yer talkin’,” growled the Doc., his Irish accent coming out under the influence of excitement. “Will ye hold your tongues now, and we’ll be after tryin’ again!”
We tried again—we tried for several nights—but it was no use. The glass did not budge, or, if it did, it travelled in small circles and did not approach the letters. We blamed our tools for our poor mediumship and substituted a large enamelled tray for the table, which had a crack down the centre where the glass used to stick. The tray was an improvement and we began to reach the letters. But we never got sense. The usual séance was something like this:
Doc.: “Who are you?” Answer: “DFPBJQ.”
Doc.: “Try again. Who are you?” Answer: “DFPMGJQ.”
Matthews.: “It’s obviously trying to say something—the same letters nearly, each time. Try again.”
Doc.: “Who are you?” Answer: “THRSWV.”