He gave up trying because the Wild Asses, once they had got out of control, developed the most amazing gifts. They could, for instance, disguise themselves with any sort of human shape, and the only way in which they differed then from a normal human being was--according to the printed paper of instructions that had been given to their custodian when he was fired out--that "their general conduct remains that of a Wild Ass of the Devil." "And what interpretation can we put upon _that_?" he asked the listening Author. And there was one night in the year--Walpurgis Night, when the Wild Asses became visibly great black wild asses and kicked up their hind legs and brayed. They had to. "But then, of course," said the devil, "they would take care to shut themselves up somewhere when they felt that coming on." Like most weak characters, the stoker devil was intensely egotistical. He was anxious to dwell upon his own miseries and discomforts and difficulties and the general injustice of his treatment, and he was careless and casually indicative about the peculiarities of the Wild Asses, the matter which most excited and interested the Author. He bored on with his doleful story, and the Author had to interrupt with questions again and again in order to get any clear idea of the situation. The devil's main excuse for his nervelessness was his profound ignorance of human nature. "So far as I can see," he said, "they might all be Wild Asses. I tried it once----" "Tried what?" "The formula. You know." "Yes?" "On a man named Sir Edward Carson." "Well?" "_Ugh!_" said the devil. "Punishment?" "Don't speak of it. He was just a professional lawyer-politician who had lost his sense of values.... How was _I_ to know?... But our people certainly know how to hurt...." After that it would seem this poor devil desisted absolutely from any attempt to recover his lost charges. He just tried to live for the moment and make his earthly existence as tolerable as possible. It was clear he hated the world. He found it cold, wet, draughty.... "I can't understand why everybody insists upon living outside of it," he said. "If you went inside----" He sought warmth and dryness. For a time he found a kind of contentment in charge of the upcast furnace of a mine, and then he was superseded by an electric-fan. While in this position he read a vivid account of the intense heat in the Red Sea, and he was struck by the idea that if he could get a job as stoker upon an Indian liner he might snatch some days of real happiness during that portion of the voyage. For some time his natural ineptitude prevented his realizing this project, but at last, after some bitter experiences of homelessness during a London December, he had been able to ship on an Indiaward boat--only to get stranded in Folkestone in consequence of a propeller breakdown. And so here he was! He paused. "But about these Wild Asses?" said the Author. The mournful, dark eyes looked at him hopelessly.