“Well, he certainly is a remarkable man—and he always was. Is he religious?” “Clear to his marrow—does more thinking and reading on that subject than any other except Russia and Siberia: thrashes around over the whole field, too; nothing bigoted about him.” “What is his religion?” “He—” She stopped, and was lost for a moment or two in thinking, then she said, with simplicity, “I think he was a Mohammedan or something last week.” Washington started down town, now, to bring his trunk, for the hospitable Sellerses would listen to no excuses; their house must be his home during the session. The Colonel returned presently and resumed work upon his plaything. It was finished when Washington got back. “There it is,” said the Colonel, “all finished.” “What is it for, Colonel?” “Oh, it’s just a trifle. Toy to amuse the children.” Washington examined it. “It seems to be a puzzle.” “Yes, that’s what it is. I call it Pigs in the Clover. Put them in—see if you can put them in the pen.” After many failures Washington succeeded, and was as pleased as a child. “It’s wonderfully ingenious, Colonel, it’s ever so clever and interesting—why, I could play with it all day. What are you going to do with it?” “Oh, nothing. Patent it and throw it aside.” “Don’t you do anything of the kind. There’s money in that thing.” A compassionate look traveled over the Colonel’s countenance, and he said: “Money—yes; pin money: a couple of hundred thousand, perhaps. Not more.” Washington’s eyes blazed. “A couple of hundred thousand dollars! do you call that pin money?” The colonel rose and tip-toed his way across the room, closed a door that was slightly ajar, tip-toed his way to his seat again, and said, under his breath: “You can keep a secret?” Washington nodded his affirmative, he was too awed to speak. “You have heard of materialization—materialization of departed spirits?” Washington had heard of it. “And probably didn’t believe in it; and quite right, too. The thing as practised by ignorant charlatans is unworthy of attention or respect—where there’s a dim light and a dark cabinet, and a parcel of sentimental gulls gathered together, with their faith and their shudders and their tears all ready, and one and the same fatty degeneration of protoplasm and humbug comes out and materializes himself into anybody you want, grandmother, grandchild, brother-in-law, Witch of Endor, John Milton, Siamese twins, Peter the Great, and all such frantic nonsense—no, that is all foolish and pitiful. But when a man that is competent brings the vast powers of _science_ to bear, it’s a different matter, a totally different matter, you see. The spectre that answers _that_ call has come to stay. Do you note the commercial value of that detail?” “Well, I—the—the truth is, that I don’t quite know that I do. Do you mean that such, being permanent, not transitory, would give more general satisfaction, and so enhance the price—of tickets to the show—”