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That's the trouble. I've seen dozens of those things, and they always just come up to the edge of proving themselves, but always jump back. There is always " "My God, Larmy, look look!" cried the reporter.
He was too many for me," was the reporter's answer. "The little rooster couldn't have faked it up?" questioned Larmy. "No but he might have hypnotised us or something." "Yes but still, he might have been hypnotised by something himself," suggested Larmy, and then added: "That thing he did with the linotype say, wasn't that about the limit? And yet nothing has come of that prophecy.
Larmy and the reporter were sitting kicking their heels on the stone steps of the post-office opposite the screen on which the pictures were flickering. Some they saw and others they did not notice, for their talk was of David and of the strange things he had shown to them. "How did you ever fix it up in your mind?" asked Larmy. "I didn't fix it up.
And the next time the reporter saw a light in the office window he broke into the seance. When the boy and his girl were not holding down the sofa at her father's home, or when there was no dance at the Imperial Club hall, nor any other social diversion, David and Larmy and the reporter would meet at the office and dive into things too deep for Horatio's philosophy.
The reporter began using a chisel on the top of a little box with a Government frank on it, that had been placed upon the music-box in the corner. "We may as well see what David sent home," he grunted, as he jerked at the stubborn nails, "anyway, I've got a theory." Larmy was smoking hard. "Yes," he replied after a time; "we might as well open it now as any time.
There was an army uniform, that had something clinky in the pockets, and wrapped in a magenta silk handkerchief was a carved piece of ivory. In a camera plate-box was a rose, faded and crumbly, a chip-diamond ring, a bangle bracelet, a woman's glove and a photograph. These Larmy looked at as he smoked. They meant nothing to him, but the reporter dived into the clothes for the clinky things.
Larmy and It were contending as to whether It was merely a hypnotic influence on the boy, of someone living whom they did not know, or what It claimed to be, a disembodied spirit. By way of diversion, the reporter had just run a binder's needle under one of the boy's finger-nails to see whether he would flinch.
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