Jagg’s guilty face betrayed him, and I hastened to my table. “If you ate that soap,” I wrote, “you will have to stay here while I go to town for more. If you ate it, nod, and if you are willing to stay, nod. It will be better for you if you decide to stay.” These last words I underlined with red ink to give them a sinister significance.
After assimilation, Jagg came to me and nodded twice. He was evidently sincere in his repentance, so I took my suit case, and my note-books, and set out for the station with a light heart. He sat in the door of the cabin, watching me wistfully, and the old, familiar, Indian-blanket odour sensibly decreased as I progressed.
When I boarded the train, he was nowhere in sight, and my pulses throbbed with exultation. Freedom at last, after weeks of Jagg! It was too good to believe.
I found my new cabin occupied by a morose, hickory-shirted individual christened “Abadiah,” but known simply as “Ab.” He refused to believe that I was the rightful owner of the place, and I had no way of proving it, as my evidence had been eaten. He said he’d just “squat” round there until he saw a written order to move out, and I made the best of a bad bargain. There were two cots in the cabin, so I did not mind particularly, and it was not altogether unpleasant to have someone of my own species with me after my long isolation.
Weary, but foolishly light-hearted, I went to sleep. When I awoke, I had the same old uneasy feeling of being watched, and, rubbing my eyes, I saw, sitting on the foot of my cot—who should it be but Jagg, chewing the cud of reflection?
An old silk hat was wedged tightly over his horns, there was a baleful gleam of mockery in his singularly human eyes, and around his neck was tied an ordinary express tag, which was inscribed, simply: “Please pass the Butter.” Where he had obtained it, I do not know, but he had evidently taken the next train.
When Ab woke up, he viewed the new arrival with disfavour, which was promptly reciprocated by said arrival.
“Likely lookin’ animile,” grunted Ab. “Whose is it?”
“It seems to be ours,” I answered, with a hollow laugh.
“Smells like thunder, don’t it?” asked Ab.