whatever must be done, I imagined.

He smiled grimly.

"Glad your senility has not affected that remnant of your common-sense,"
he declared. "You're dead right, my boy; it IS up to you. You ought to
be ashamed of yourself."

"I am, but that doesn't help me a whole lot."

"Nothing will help you as long as you think and speak as you have this
morning. See here, Kent! answer me a question or two, will you? They may
be personal questions, but will you answer them?"

"I guess so. There has been what a disinterested listener might call
a slightly personal flavor to your remarks so far. Do your worst. Fire
away."

"All right. You've lived in Bayport ten years or so, I know that. What
have you done in all that time--besides write?"

"Well, I've continued to live."

"Doubted. You've continued to exist; but how? I've been here before.
This isn't my first visit, by a good deal. Each time I have been
here your daily routine--leaving out the exciting clam hunts and the
excursions in quest of the ferocious flounder, like the one we're
supposed--mind, I say supposed--to be on at the present moment--you
have put in the day about like this: Get up, bathe, eat, walk to the
post-office, walk home, sit about, talk a little, read some, walk some