With a glance which, true to her promise, was not overburdened with
sympathy, his strangely acquired hostess went out and closed the
door.

He tried to read the book she had handed him ("Green Mansions"--ho-r
had it wandered out here?) but his mind could not detach itself. It
insisted upon listening for sounds outside. And presently a sound
came--the high, thin sound of a voice shaking with weakness or rage.
Then the cool tones of his absent nurse, then the voice again--
certainly a most unpleasant voice--and the crashing sound of
something being violently thrown to the ground and stamped upon.
Through the closed door, the professor seemed to see a vision of an
absurd old man with pale eyes, who shrieked and stamped upon an
umbrella.

"That," said Hamilton Spence, with resignation, "that must be father
having a fit!"




CHAPTER IV

Letter from Professor Hamilton Spence to his friend, John Rogers,
M.D.

DEAR Bones: Chortle if you want to--your worst prognostications have
come true. The unexpectedness of the sciatic nerve, as set forth in
your parting discourse, has amply proved itself. The dashed thing is