“Not only knew it, but, as I was saying, marked it on the wall. That’s a sign of knowledge. And for fear they wouldn’t be understood, he kindly explained to about a dozen people present the particular meaning of each.”
“The devil!” said John.
“That’s what I said he was,” rejoined Clark, dryly. “But that’s nothing. I remember when I was a little boy,” he continued, pensively, “hearing the parson read about some handwriting on the wall, that frightened Beelzebub himself; but I tell you this handwriting on the wall used me up a good deal more than that other. Still what followed was worse.”
Clark paused for a little while, and then, taking a long breath, went on.
“He proceeded to give to the assembled company an account of my life, particularly that very interesting part of it which I passed on my last visit to Botany Bay. You know my escape.”
He stopped for a while.
“Did he know about that, too?” asked Potts, with some agitation.
“Johnnie,” said Clark, “he knew a precious sight more than you do, and told some things which I had forgotten myself. Why, that devil stood up there and slowly told the company not only what I did but what I felt. He brought it all back. He told how I looked at Stubbs, and how Stubbs looked at me in the boat. He told how we sat looking at each other, each in our own end of the boat.”
Clark stopped again, and no one spoke for a long time.
“I lost my breath and ran out,” he resumed, “and was afraid to go back. I did so at last. It was then almost midnight. I found him still sitting there. He smiled at me in a way that fairly made my blood run cold. ‘Crocker,’ said he, ‘sit down.’”