§ 59 A Lover of Statistics
There was a seance on—a regular seance, with a trance medium and a black cheesecloth cabinet and a mysterious table rapper and a ghostly guitar picker and everything orthodox, like that. The medium was a stout lady whose controls took those liberties with the English language which seemingly is permitted in a realm where there is neither space nor time—nor grammar. The audience was of fairish size. Amid the throng sat a half-grown youth from about five miles out on R. F. D. No. 3. He was attending his first spiritualistic seance. As manifestation succeeded manifestation, his eyes popped and his ears twitched.
Presently the medium’s husband, who acted, so to speak, as ringmaster, desired to know whether there was yet another present desirous of having speech with some dear departed one. If so, Madame would undertake to establish liaison.
This was the cue for the yokel. He mustered courage to stutter an embarrassed plea. He wished to hear from the shade of his late father.
After a proper wait there were sounds in the cabinet and through the darkness there spoke the tones of one of seeming hoary age.
“Is that you, my son?” asked the voice.
“Yes, paw, this here is me,” answered the youth.
“Was there any questions you wished to ast me concernin’ my present state?” continued the accommodating voice.
The boy thought a moment. Then:
“Where air you, Paw?” he inquired with simple directness.
“Heaven, my son.”
“Air you an angel, Paw?”
“Oh, yes, my son.”
“An angel with wings and a harp and everything?”
The answer was somewhat muffled but seemingly in the affirmative. The son considered a moment.
“Say, Paw,” he demanded eagerly, “whut do you measure frum tip to tip?”