Horace.
[Standing by the sofa by fireplace.] Well,—do you see that patch of silver on the water just above the bridge—[pointing to the left]—where they're all looking?
Pringle.
Yes, I see that. What about it?
Horace.
Only that, somewhere under that patch, old Fakrash is lying, snugly curled up inside his bottle.
Pringle.
[Incredulously.] What!
Horace.
I happen to know, because I dropped it there myself this afternoon inside a kit-bag.