“‘What is what?’ George growled, resting for a moment on the handle of his pick.
“‘Why, that!’ I said, pointing to my cap. ‘What makes it move like that?’
“‘The wind, of course,’ George said.
“‘There’s not enough draught for that. See!’ I placed a piece of paper on the ground within an inch or two of the cap, and it remained perfectly still. ‘Something must be underneath it.’ I picked the cap up, there was nothing there. ‘What do you think of it now?’ I asked.
“George made no reply. He turned round, so that I could not see his face, and plied his pick vigorously. After a few minutes I stopped work again.
“‘George,’ I cried, ‘what’s the matter with your coat? Look! It’s doing just as your cap did.’
“George threw down his pick with an oath.
“‘What do you want to keep worrying me for?’ he said. ‘What’s wrong now?’
“‘Why, your coat! Look! it’s moving—rising up and down as if the wind were blowing it—and there’s not an atom of draught.’
“‘It’s your fancy,’ George said hoarsely. ‘The coat’s not moving.’