"Humph!" I retorted. "You called me a blooming Yank yesterday. I am.
I shall soon be out of your reach in the great and glorious United
States."
"Oh, as for that," he answered, calmly, "I can go to the United States. There are steamers in great plenty. I could even get myself blown across on a gale, if I wanted to—only gales are not always convenient. Some of 'em don't go all the way through, and connections are hard to make. A gale I was riding on once stopped in mid-ocean, and I had to wait a week before another came along, and it landed me in Africa instead of at New York."
"Got aboard the wrong gale, eh?" said I, with a laugh.
"Yes," he answered.
"Didn't you drown?" I cried, somewhat interested.
"Idiot!" he retorted. "Drown? How could I? You can't drown a ghost!"
"See here," said I, "if you call me an idiot again, I'll—I'll—"
"What?" he put in, with a grin. "Now just what will you do? You're clever, but I'm a ghost!"
[Illustration: "I SHALL KEEP SHOVING YOU FOR EXACTLY ONE YEAR">[
"You wait and see!" said I, rushing angrily from the room. It was a very weak retort, and I frankly admit that I am ashamed of it, but it was the best I had at hand at the moment. My stock of repartee, like most men's vitality, is at its lowest ebb at four o'clock in the morning.