"It is probable," he said, "that if—a—such semi-celestial individuals as those described by the poet existed—a—possessed a corporal envelope—a—were endowed with a local habitation and a name—Shakespeare—they would not be subject to conditions which—which tend to the—a—obscuration of beauty; but we will proceed, if you please, Thomas. Hark! was that a knock at the door?"
They listened. There was a silence; then, beyond question, came a knock on the outer door; a loud, imperative rap, with a suggestion of rhythm, almost of flourish, in its repetition. "Rat-ta-tat, rat-ta-tat, rat-ta-tat!" Then silence again.
"Direxia is in bed," said Tommy Candy. "I'll go."
"Wait; wait a moment, Thomas!" said Mr. Homer, nervously. "Do you think—it is near nine o'clock—do you think that courtesy absolutely demands our opening the door?"
Tommy looked at him in amazement.
"It—it is probably a lady!" said Mr. Homer, piteously. "She is without doubt bringing me—a—food;—a—bodily pabulum;—a—refreshment for the inner man. Thomas, I—I do not feel as if I could receive another dish at present. I have received four—have I not?—assaults—a—I would say, gifts, to-day, all tending to—overtax the digestive powers, even if Direxia's friendly ministrations did not invite—or more properly demand—all the powers of that description which I possess."
"Pineapple cream, Miss Wax," replied Tommy Candy, briefly. "That was good; I ate it myself. Lobster salad, Miss Goby; claws round it; might have boiled her own for a garnish; calf's-foot jelly, Widder Ketchum; plum cake, Mis' Pottle. Seth Weaver says that when Doctor Pottle is short of patients, the old lady always bakes a batch of fruit-cake and sends it round. It's sure to fetch somebody; you could ballast a schooner with it, Seth says. Yes, that makes four, sir. But maybe this isn't a woman, Mr. Homer. I don't think it sounds like one, and anyhow, I wouldn't let one in, noways. You'd better let me go, sir."
The knock sounded again, still more imperative; and now a voice was heard, a man's voice, thin and high, crying, impatiently: "Within there! house! what ho! within!"
Mr. Homer gasped, and loosened his necktie convulsively.
"My mind is probably failing," he said. "That voice—is probably a hallucination;—a—an aberration; a—you hear no voice, I should surmise, Thomas?"