He felt quite calm, as the statue of a dead
alderman feels on the embankment of its native city. Nothing seemed to
matter at all. He might have been Marcus Aurelius--till a loud double
knock came to the front door. Then he might have been any dangerous
lunatic, ripe for a strait waistcoat. Mr. Ferdinand approached. The
Prophet faced him.
"Kindly retire, Mr. Ferdinand," he said in a very quiet voice. "I will
answer that knock."
Mr. Ferdinand retired rather rapidly. The knock was repeated. The
Prophet opened the door. A telegraph boy, about two and a half feet
high, stood outside upon the step.
"Telegram, sir," he said in a thin voice.
"Give it to me, my lad," replied the Prophet.
The small boy handed the telegram and turned to depart.
"Wait a moment, my lad," said the Prophet, very gently.
The small boy waited.
"Do you wish to be strangled, my lad?" asked the Prophet.
The small boy tried to recoil, but his terror rooted him firmly to the
spot.
"Do all the other boys at the office wish to be strangled?" continued
the Prophet. "Come, my lad, why don't you answer me?"
"No, sir," whispered the small boy, passing his little tongue over his
pale lips.
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