But that night something of importance did happen, and it
has been going on ever since. The unlovely creature turned up in my
lodgings just as I was about to retire, and talked in his rasping
voice until long after four o'clock. I ordered him out, and he
declined to go. I struck at him, but it was like hitting smoke.
"All right," said I, putting on my clothes. "If you won't get out, I
will."
"That's exactly what I intended you to do," he said. "How do you
like being shoved, eh? Yesterday was the 21st of June. I shall keep
shoving you along, even as you shoved me, for exactly one year."
"Humph!" I retorted. "You called me a blooming Yank yesterday. I am.
I shall soon be out of your reach in the great and glorious United
States."
"Oh, as for that," he answered, calmly, "I can go to the United
States. There are steamers in great plenty. I could even get myself
blown across on a gale, if I wanted to--only gales are not always
convenient. Some of 'em don't go all the way through, and
connections are hard to make. A gale I was riding on once stopped in
mid-ocean, and I had to wait a week before another came along, and
it landed me in Africa instead of at New York.
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