The box was fastened to the vertical tongue-and-groove laths of the woodwork, not the wall. It was old lumber, stiffened by a hundred layers of paint since 1908. The paint was as thick and strong as the boards. The box was fastened fast. Six-inch spike nails, I guessed.
Calmly, I flung my whole weight away from the wall. My wrist almost cracked, but there wasn't even a bend in the box. Carefully, I tried to jerk my fist straight up, to pry off the top of the box. It was as if the box had been carved out of one solid piece of timber. It wouldn't go up, down, left or right.
But I kept trying.
While keeping a lookout for Partridge and somebody stepping out of the kitchen for a pull on a bottle, I spotted the clock for the first time, a Western Union clock high up at the back of the hall. Just as I seen it for the first time, the electricity wound the spring motor inside like a chicken having its neck wrung.
The next time I glanced at the clock, it said ten minutes had gone by. My hand still wasn't free and I hadn't budged the box.
"This," Brother Partridge said, "is one of the most profound experiences of my life."
My head hinged until it lined my eyes up with Brother Partridge. The pipe hung heavy in my pocket, but he was too far from me.
"A vision of you at the box projected itself on the crest of my soup," the preacher explained in wonderment.
I nodded. "Swimming right in there with the dead duck."
"Cold turkey," he corrected. "Are you scoffing at a miracle?"