And then as he came back to the fire he saw something that he instantly dismissed as an optical illusion, as a mirage effect of the clouds of steam his guest was disengaging. The stoker was sitting, all crouched up, as close over the fire as he could contrive; and he was holding his black hands, not to the fire but _in_ the fire, holding them pressed flat against two red, glowing masses of coal.... He glanced over his shoulder at the Author with a guilty start, and then instantly the Author perceived that the hands were five or six inches away from the coal. Then came smoking. The Author produced one of his big cigars--for although a conscientious pipe-smoker himself he gave people cigars; and then, again struck by something odd, he went off into a corner of the room where a little oval mirror gave him a means of watching the stoker undetected. And this is what he saw. He saw the stoker, after a furtive glance at him, deliberately turn the cigar round, place the lighted end in his mouth, inhale strongly, and blow a torrent of sparks and smoke out of his nose. His firelit face as he did this expressed a diabolical relief. Then very hastily he reversed the cigar again, and turned round to look at the Author. The Author turned slowly towards him. "You like that cigar?" he asked, after one of those mutual pauses that break down a pretence. "It's admirable." "Why do you smoke it the other way round?" The stoker perceived he was caught. "It's a stokehole trick," he said. "Do you mind if I do it? I didn't think you saw." "Pray smoke just as you like," said the Author, and advanced to watch the operation. It was exactly like the fire-eater at a village fair. The man stuck the burning cigar into his mouth and blew sparks out of his nostrils. "Ah!" he said, with a note of genuine satisfaction. And then, with the cigar still burning in the corner of his mouth, he turned to the fire and _began to rearrange the burning coals with his hands_ so as to pile up a great glowing mass. He picked up flaming and white-hot lumps as one might pick up lumps of sugar. The Author watched him, dumbfounded. "I say!" he cried. "You stokers get a bit tough." The stoker dropped the glowing piece of coal in his hand. "I forgot," he said, and sat back a little. "Isn't that a bit--_extra_?" asked the Author, regarding him. "Isn't that some sort of trick?" "We get so tough down there," said the stoker, and paused discreetly as the servant came in with the red pepper. "Now you can drink," said the Author, and set himself to mix a drink of a pungency that he would have considered murderous ten minutes before. When he had done the stoker reached over and added more red pepper. "I don't quite see how it is your hand doesn't burn," said the Author as the stoker drank. The stoker shook his head over the uptilted glass.