"Then let us get to work at once," said Piecraft—and he handed his manuscript across the table.
The young man settled himself in a good light and began to read. The first sentence ran as follows:
"For the fourth time that day, Abdulla, the water-seller of Damascus, had come to the river's bank to fill his water-skin."
"Stop!" cried Piecraft. "I never wrote that! I must have given you the wrong manuscript. What is the title on the outside?"
"The Hole in the Water-skin," answered the reader.
"It's not the title of my story," said Piecraft. "Here, hand the papers over to me and let me look at them. Extraordinary! Where did this thing come from? I presume you're attempting some kind of practical joke. What have you done with the manuscript I gave you?"
"The confusion will soon pass," said the other.
"Confusion, indeed!" answered Piecraft, as his eye glanced over the sheets. "You've hit the right word this time, my boy. For the odd thing is that the whole piece is written in my hand and on my paper, and is, I could swear, the identical bundle of sheets I laid away last night. And yet there is not a word in it I can recognise as my own. But wait—what's this on page 32? I see something about 'dual personality.' That was the title of my story. But no! The words are scratched out. Yes, a whole page—two pages—more pages—are deleted at that point. What on earth does it all mean?"
"Perhaps," said the young man, "if you allow me to read the whole to you, your connection with the story will gradually become clear."
"You had better do so," answered Piecraft. "At all events, read on till I stop you. For, from what I see, I don't like the fellow's style, and may soon grow tired of it. And make a point of reading the portions that are scratched out."