watched me hungrily. When I had finished, each of them took a short
turn with the poker, and then we all returned, more or less appeased,
to our seats.

But we had not done with the ineffable FUSSELL. By this time he was on
the top of a step-ladder. Slowly he selected six tomes, and began his
perilous descent. Our eyes were riveted upon him. Crash, bang! His
arms were empty, and the unconscionable books fluttered and clattered
to the floor. Slowly and ruefully did FUSSELL descend into the cloud
of dust and gather his bruised treasures from the carpet. At last he
heaped them on his table, and began to write. We hoped for peace,
but it was not to be. A sudden thought struck him. He would sew his
scattered leaves of MS. together. With dreadful deliberation he took
needle and cotton from a little pocket housewife that he carried with
him; and then began one of the most maddening performances I have
ever watched. Carefully he held the needle to the light, carefully he
wetted and trimmed his cotton to a point. And for ten stricken minutes
we saw him miss the eye of the needle, sometimes by an inch, sometimes
by a hair's breadth. It was a thrilling contest between obstinacy and
evasiveness. I was fascinated by it. Every time, as the cotton neared
the eye, my heart slowly ascended into my mouth, only to drop with a
fatal swiftness into my boots as the triumphant needle scored another
victory. I began to imitate FUSSELL's every movement. I threaded
invisible needles by the gross with imperceptible cotton. I felt in
my own breast all the ardour of the chase, all the bitter sorrow of
repeated failures. My two companions in misfortune were similarly
affected, and there we sat, three sane and ordinary men, feverishly
going through all these itching movements with FUSSELL as our
detested, but unconscious fugleman. The strain became too great. I
sprang from my chair, "Sir," I said to the astonished FUSSELL, "permit