on his ceiling and clambering round the lintels of his doors
from one room to another, and never, never, never coming to
the club any more. . . .

Then, you know, my fatal ingenuity got the better of me. I was
sitting by his fire drinking his whisky, and he was up in his
favourite corner by the cornice, tacking a Turkey carpet to the
ceiling, when the idea struck me. "By Jove, Pyecraft!" I said, "all
this is totally unnecessary."

And before I could calculate the complete consequences of my notion
I blurted it out. "Lead underclothing," said I, and the mischief was
done.

Pyecraft received the thing almost in tears. "To be right ways up
again--" he said. I gave him the whole secret before I saw where
it would take me. "Buy sheet lead," I said, "stamp it into discs.
Sew 'em all over your underclothes until you have enough. Have
lead-soled boots, carry a bag of solid lead, and the thing is done!
Instead of being a prisoner here you may go abroad again, Pyecraft;
you may travel--"

A still happier idea came to me. "You need never fear a shipwreck.
All you need do is just slip off some or all of your clothes, take the
necessary amount of luggage in your hand, and float up in the air--"

In his emotion he dropped the tack-hammer within an ace of my head.
"By Jove!" he said, "I shall be able to come back to the club again."

The thing pulled me up short. "By Jove!" I said faintly. "Yes.