“On the contrary, he is a person of commanding intellect and nice social discrimination,” I asserted, recalling Willy Woolly’s flattering acceptance of myself.
“A faker,” asseverated my friend. “He pretends to see things.”
I sat up straight on my bench. “Things? What kind of things?”
“Things that aren’t there,” returned the Little Red Doctor, and fell to musing. “They couldn’t be,” he added presently and argumentatively.
Receiving no encouragement when I sought further details, I asked whether he had called the new resident to account for the delinquencies of his clocks. He shook his head.
“I didn’t have time,” said he doggedly.
“Time? Why, there’s nothing but time in that house.”
The Little Red Doctor chose to take my feeble joke at par. “No time at all. None of the clocks keep it.”
“How does he manage his life, then?”
“Willy Woolly does that for him. Barks him up in the morning. Jogs his elbow at mealtimes. Tucks him in bed at night, for all I know.”