“I didn't ask you that; you asked me.”
“Well, it doesn't matter who asked.” (Turning to me): “What were you doing?”
“I don't know,” I said. “Was it these things I was using” (taking up a pack of cards), “or something like this?” (I held up a book.)
“Yes, that one. What were you doing with it? What's it for?”
“We call it reading a book,” and I tried to explain what the idea was, and read out a few lines; it happened to be Pickwick. They were absorbed. Slim said, half to himself, “Something like a glass,” which I thought quite meaningless at the time. Then I showed them a picture in another book. That they made out very quickly.
“But when's it going to move on?” said Slim.
“Never,” I said. “Ours stop just like that always. Do yours move on?”
“Of course they do; look here.” He lay down on the tablecloth and pressed his forehead on it, but evidently could make nothing of it. “It's all rough,” he said. I gave him a sheet of paper. “That's better;” and he lay down again in the same posture for a few seconds. Then he got up and began rubbing the paper all over with the palms of his hands. As he did so a coloured picture came out pretty quickly, and when it was finished he drew aside to let me see, and said, somewhat bashfully, “I don't think I've got it quite right, but I meant it for what happened the other evening.” He had certainly not got it right as far as I was concerned. It was a view of the window of the house, seen from outside by moonlight, and there was a back view of a row of figures with their elbows on the sill. So far, so good; but inside the open window was standing a figure which was plainly—much too plainly, I thought—meant for me; far too short and fat, far too red-faced, and with an owlish expression which I am sure I never wear. This person was now seen to move his hand—a very poor hand, with only about three fingers—to his side, and pull, apparently, out of his body, a round object more or less like a watch (at any rate it was white on one side with black marks, and yellow on the other) and lay it down in front of him. At this the figures at the window-sill threw up their arms in all directions and fell or slid down like so many dolls. Then the picture began to get fainter, and disappeared from the paper. Slim looked at me expectantly.
“Well,” I said, “it's very interesting to see how you do it, but is that the best likeness of me that you can make?”
“What's wrong with it?” said he. “Isn't it handsome enough or something?”