Isawtheceiling-clothnearlyinthecentreoftheroombagwithashapethatwaspressingitdownwardanddownwardtowardthelightedlampsonthetableIsnatchedalampoutofdangerandstoodbackThentheclothrippedoutfromthewalls，tore，split，swayed，andshotdownuponthetablesomethingthatIdarednotlookattillStricklandhadsliddowntheladderandwasstandingbymyside。
Hedidnotsaymuch，beingamanoffewwords，buthepickedupthelooseendofthetable-clothandthrewitoverthethingonthetable。
“Itstrikesme。”saidhe，pullingdownthelamp，“ourfriendImrayhascomebackOh！youwould，wouldyou？”
Therewasamovementunderthecloth，andalittlesnakewriggle’dout，tobeback-brokenbythebuttofthemasheerrodIwassufficientlysicktomakenoremarksworthrecording。
StricklandmeditatedandhelpedhimselftodrinksliberallyThethingundertheclothmadenomoresignsoflife。