“My God!” he muttered, aloud. “What did I say to him. What didn't I say to him? I'm a loon! I'm a nut! This is the asylum!”
He stiffened up; sat there for a moment, wildeyed. He reached down and pinched his thigh, hard. He sprang up and paced the room. He wheeled suddenly, craftily, on the silent buzzer, there on the partition. So far all right—the wires were cut!
He saw the shears lying on the desk; pounced on them and feverishly examined the blades. One was nicked.
So far, so good. But the supreme test remained. He plunged out into the silent corridor, hesitated, stood wrestling with the devils within him, conquered them and white as all the ghosts tapped at Doctor Wilde's door, opened it a crack, stuck in his head, and said:
“How much did you say it was to be, Doctor?”
The Walrus compressed his lips, and then drew a deep breath that was not unlike a sigh. “The figure I mentioned,” he replied, “was sixty dollars a week. If that is satisfactory to you.”
Hy considered this. “On the whole,” he said finally, “considering everything, I will agree to that.”
At ten minutes past midnight Hy let himself into the rooms. One gas jet was burning dimly in the studio. As he stood on the threshold he could just make out the long figure of the Worm half reclining in the Morris chair by a wide-open window, attired in the striped pajamas of the morning. From one elevated foot dangled a slipper of Chinese straw. He was smoking his old brier.
“Hello!” said Hy cheerfully.
Silence. Then, “Hello!” replied the Worm.