It is at this point that we reach, by the reader's leave, the psychological interest of this our simple story. For the problem presents itself to Mr. Wells, as well as to me, whether all this violent reading has not created in Joe's mind the impression of a Joe who never was on sea or land. In other words: in the tale which Joe tells of his own life, is any part of it fact, or is it not all a figment of his brain, the creation of his bloody-minded authors? Joe himself believes every word of it; Joe believes he was the Joe he tells you about, and his face grows purple, and his glassy eyes dart fire out of their baggy flesh, if you insinuate never so delicately that one of his stories is in the very smallest detail just a little difficult of belief. Mr. Wells never contradicts Joe; but every now and then (forgetting that Joe can see) he shakes a sceptic head, and, leaning towards you, whispers (forgetting that Joe can only hear when you shout at him) that you must be pleased to remember that "_that's_ what he thinks he done; and no doubt he _thinks_ that it was so; and it may be it was, and I should never think of contradicting, not no man; but I has my own opinion in the matter. _I don't_ think it was so. I think he's half dreaming and half telling a tale. That's what _I_ think." "But," you inquire, "is it not true that Joe was once a pirate?" "Oh, yes," he cries at once, smiling proudly; "Oh, yes. Joe was a pirate right enough. What, haven't you heard him tell how they boarded a Spanish ship, and cut the throats and broke the heads of the swarthy crew? Oh, you ought to hear him tell that. It's as good as a play." And here he leans forward, and calls across to chuckling and gurgling Joe. "Joe! Tell the genneman how you boarded that Spanish ship, and cut the throats of them there swarthy Spaniards." * * * * * At this Old Joe seems to be smitten with a sudden frenzy. I have never seen anything like it. After a preliminary canter in the laughing line he suddenly makes taut his body; his eyes bulge from his head; his face becomes crimson and his nose blue; then, with his mouth open, while he hisses like a steam-saw and roars like a bull and sends the most extraordinary imitation of throat-cutting spluttering wetly from his distended lips, he waves his right arm madly and frantically in the air, makes imaginary stabs in front of him, draws imaginary knives across his throat, and brings down the butt ends of imaginary carbines on the supposititious heads of the swarthy crew unkindly resurrected to be slain again.