"Tell me about it all, old cock," I said.
"I'm sure I told you last time I was at home."
"Never; my memory for yarns is only too good. I hate a chestnut."
"Well, here goes! Mind you I don't profess to explain the thing; only
I don't think I did wrong in telling the young woman, for, however you
account for it, it was not nice."
"A good many years ago there came to the island, as a clerk, un nomme
Bolter, English or Jew."
"His name is not Jewish."
"No, and I really don't know about his breed. The most curious thing
about his appearance was his eyes: they were large, black, and had a
peculiar dull dead lustre."
"Did they shine in the dark? I knew a fellow at Oxford whose eyes
did. Chairs ran after him."
"I never noticed; I don't remember. 'Psychically,' as you
superstitious muffs call it, Bolter was still more queer. At that
time we were all gone on spirit-rapping. Bolter turned out a great
acquisition, 'medium,' or what not. Mind you, I'm not saying Bolter
was straight. In the dark he'd tell you what you had in your hand,
exact time of your watch, and so on.
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