'Ah, that is comforting of you! Most men walk through 'em to show me they aren't real. As if I didn't know! But you're different. Anybody could see that with half an eye.' He stiffened and pointed. 'Damn it all! The dog sees it too with half an--Why, he knows you! Knows you perfectly. D'you know him?'
'How can I tell if he isn't real?' I insisted.
'But you can! You're all right. I saw that from the first. Don't go back on me now or I shall go to pieces like the Drummond Castle. I beg your pardon, old man; but, you see, you do know the dog. I'll prove it. What's that dog doing? Come on! You know.' A tremor shook him, and he put his hand on my knee, and whispered with great meaning: 'I'll letter or halve it with you. There! You begin.'
'S,' said I to humour him, for a dog would most likely be standing or sitting, or may be scratching or sniffling or staring.
'Q,' he went on, and I could feel the heat of his shaking hand.
'U,' said I. There was no other letter possible; but I was shaking too.
'I.'
'N.'
'T-i-n-g,' he ran out. 'There! That proves it. I knew you knew him. You don't know what a relief that is. Between ourselves, old man, he--he's been turning up lately a--a damn sight more often than I cared for. And a squinting dog--a dog that squints! I mean that's a bit too much. Eh? What?' He gulped and half rose, and I thought that the full tide of delirium would be on him in another sentence.
'Not a bit of it,' I said as a last chance, with my hand over the bellpush. 'Why, you've just proved that I know him; so there are two of us in the game, anyhow.'