Very, very far away, there was a faint whisper, which was
the roar of the Rains breaking over the river. One of the men heard it, got
out of his chair, listened, and said, naturally enough:--"Thank God!"
Then the Blastoderm turned in his place and said:--"Why? I assure you it's
only the result of perfectly natural causes--atmospheric phenomena of the
simplest kind. Why you should, therefore, return thanks to a Being who never
did exist--who is only a figment--"
"Blastoderm," grunted the man in the next chair, "dry up, and throw me over
the Pioneer. We know all about your figments." The Blastoderm reached out to
the table, took up one paper, and jumped as if something had stung him. Then
he handed the paper over.
"As I was saying," he went on slowly and with an effort--"due to perfectly
natural causes--perfectly natural causes. I mean--"
"Hi! Blastoderm, you've given me the Calcutta Mercantile Advertiser."
The dust got up in little whorls, while the treetops rocked and the kites
whistled. But no one was looking at the coming of the Rains.
We were all staring at the Blastoderm, who had risen from his chair and was
fighting with his speech. Then he said, still more slowly:--
"Perfectly conceivable--dictionary--red oak--amenable--cause--retaining--
shuttlecock--alone.
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