“The house.”
A murmur of opposition went around the circle. Enmeshed in a bad dream as I was, I was grateful to them for their loyalty. They would not have me put out. And then another meaning to these words made my flesh creep. The judge at the same moment asked the question that was trembling on my lips.
“What house?”
“The house of th-three—seven—”
“It’s trying to say it,” he assured me; “they can’t get numbers very well. Yes, Mattie?”
But the control had been seized by another spirit and, with a great pounding of the trumpet on the floor, announced: “Is the captain here? Is the captain here? I am Jacques Davit who went down on the Dolly B.”
This was a great strong masculine spirit. I had no hope of hearing from Mattie now.
The captain sat up stiffly and was swearing under his breath. “Gosh willikins, I’m a son of a— Jacques Davit! Hello, Jack!”
“Too bad,” murmured the judge to me. “Wait, we’ll get her again.”
“I’m out o’ luck all around!” said my horny-handed colleague in deep disgust.