"Mr. Fenton," called the head painter, as he varnished the "trim"
in the parlour, "I wish you'd come and see what to make of this."

I stepped into the front room. He was pointing to the long piece
of finish which spanned the doorway leading into the dining-room.
And he indicated a spot almost in the exact middle, a spot
covering a space about five inches broad and as high as the width
of the wood. In outline it was roughly octagonal.

"I've been trying my best," stated Johnson, "to varnish that spot
for the past five minutes. But I'll be darned if I can do it!"

And he showed what he meant. Every other part of the door
glistened with freshly applied varnish; but the octagonal region
remained dull, as though no liquid had ever touched it. Johnson
dipped his brush into the can, and applied a liberal smear of the
fluid to the place. Instantly the stuff disappeared.

"Blamed porous piece of wood," eyeing me queerly. "Or--do you
think it's merely porous, Mr. Fenton?"

For answer I took a brush and repeatedly daubed the place. It was
like dropping ink on a blotter. The wood sucked up the varnish as
a desert might suck up water.

"There's about a quart of varnish in the wood already," observed
Johnson, as I stared and pondered. "Suppose we take it down and
weigh it?"