He digested the discovery for some seconds, sucking his finger, and then he cried, with a crow of laughter: “And that's a head come through it.”
The hilarious energy in this idiot attitude gave Turnbull another sick turn. He had grown to tolerate those dreary and mumbling madmen who trailed themselves about the beautiful asylum gardens. But there was something new and subversive of the universe in the combination of so much cheerful decision with a body without a brain.
“Why did they put you in such a place?” he asked at last with embarrassment.
“Good place. Yes,” said the old man, nodding a great many times and beaming like a flattered landlord. “Good shape. Long and narrow, with a point. Like this,” and he made lovingly with his hands a map of the room in the air.
“But that's not the best,” he added, confidentially. “Squares very good; I have a nice long holiday, and can count them. But that's not the best.”
“What is the best?” asked Turnbull in great distress.
“Spike is the best,” said the old man, opening his blue eyes blazing; “it sticks out.”
The words Turnbull spoke broke out of him in pure pity. “Can't we do anything for you?” he said.
“I am very happy,” said the other, alphabetically. “You are a good man. Can I help you?”
“No, I don't think you can, sir,” said Turnbull with rough pathos; “I am glad you are contented at least.”