“Faith, my good sir,” my reverence for his abilities somewhat lessened by this declaration, “I am afraid you have lost your senses.”
“I am afraid you have lost something of more importance,” returned he, with a smile, in which I thought I recognised a tinge of derision. I did not like it, so, eyeing him with some sternness, I said hastily, “And pray, what have I lost?” Instead of answering me, he burst into a loud fit of laughter, holding his sides while the tears ran down his cheeks, and he seemed half stifled with a flood of irresistible merriment. My passion at this rose to such a pitch, that had he been a man of any appearance I should have knocked him down; but I could not think of resorting to such an extremity with a meagre, little elderly fellow, who had, moreover, a wooden leg. I could, therefore, only wait till his mirth subsided, when I demanded, with as much calmness as I could assume, what I had lost.
“Are you sure you have not lost your body?” said he.
“My body!” answered I with some surprise; “what do you mean?”
“Now, my dear friend, tell me plainly, are you sure that this is your own body?”
“My own body—who the devil’s can it be?”
“Are you sure you are yourself?”
“Myself—who, in heaven’s name, could I be but myself?”
“Ay, that is the rub,” continued he; “are you perfectly satisfied that you are yourself, and nobody but yourself?” I could not help smiling at the apparent stupidity of this question; but before I was able to compose myself, he had resumed his query.—“Are you sure you are—that you are—”
“That I am who?” said I, hurriedly.