Peter Macnab—who, since the memorable day when the table became a split-camel under his weight, had been to the Mountain Fort and got back again to Wichikagan—came up, sat down on a bench beside his brother-in-law, and said,—“Shall I become a prophet?”
“Perhaps you’d better not, Macnab. It is not safe to sail under false colours, or pretend to powers which one does not possess.”
“But what if I feel a sort of inspiration which convinces me that I do possess prophetic powers, at least to some extent?”
“Then explode and relieve yourself by all means,” said Lumley.
“You have read that letter,” resumed Macnab, “at least fifty times, if you have read it once.”
“If you had said that I had read it a hundred and fifty times,” returned Lumley, “you would have been still under the mark.”
“Just so. And you have meditated over it, and dreamed about it, and talked it over with your wife at least as many times—if not more.”
“Your claim to rank among the prophets is indisputable, Macnab—at least as regards the past. What have you got to say about the future?”
“The future is as clear to me, my boy, as yonder sun, which gleams in the pools that stud the ice on Lake Wichikagan.”
“I am afraid, brother-in-law,” returned Lumley, with a pitiful smile, “that your intellects are sinking to a par with those of the geese which fly over the pools referred to.”