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which she went through – his stinginess,his talkativeness, his untidiness. Charles and she had eaten a quiet supper, and she did think it had been bad of Richard to rush off without a word of explanation and stay away for three hours like that. Charles might have murdered her. He did start pulling her about a bit, in fun, wanting her to dance with him, and then the knock came on the door, and the inspector shouted: ‘Walter Charles Crossley,in the name of the King, I arrest you for the murder of George Grant, Harry Grant, and Ada Coleman at Sydney, Australia.’ Then Charles had gone absolutely mad. He had pulled out a shoe buckle and said to it: ‘Hold her for me.’ And then he had told the police to go away or he’d shout them dead. After that he made a dreadful face at them and went to pieces altogether. ‘He was rather a nice man;I liked his face so much and feel so sorry for him.’
    ‘Did you like that story?’ asked Crossley.
    ‘Yes,’ said I, busy scoring, ‘a Milesian tale of the best. Lucius Apuleius, I congratulate you.’
    Crossley turned to me with a troubled face and hands clenched trembling. ‘Every word of it is true,’ he said. ‘Crossley’s soul was cracked in four pieces and I’m a madman. Oh, I don’t blame Richard andRachel. They are a pleasant, loving pair of fools and I’ve never wished them harm; they often visit me here. In any case, now that my soul lies broken in pieces, my powers are gone. Only one thing remains to me,’ he said, ‘and that is the shout.’
    I had been so busy scoring and listening to the story at the same time that I had not noticed the immense bank of black cloud that swam up until itspread across the sun and darkened the whole sky. Warm drops of rain fell: a flash of lightning dazzled us and with it came a smashing clap of thunder.
    In a moment all was confusion. Down came a drenching rain, the cricketersdashed for cover, the lunatics began to scream, bellow, and fight. One tall young man, the same B.C. Brown who had once played for Hants, pulled all his clothes off andran about stark naked. Outside the scoring box an old man with a beard began to pray to the thunder: ‘Bah! Bah! Bah!’
    Crossley’s eyes twitched proudly. ‘Yes,’ said he, pointing to the sky, ‘that’s the sort of shout it is; that’s the effect it has; but I can do better than that.’ Then his face fell suddenly and became childishly unhappy and anxious. ‘Oh dear God,’ he said, ‘he’ll shout at me again,Crossley will. He’ll freeze my marrow.’
    The rain was rattling on the tin roof so that I could hardly hear him. Another flash, another clap of thunder even louder than the first. ‘But that’s only the second degree,’ he shouted in my ear; ‘it’s the first that kills.’
    ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Don’t you understand?’ He smiled foolishly. ‘I’m Richard now, and Crossley will kill me.’
    The naked man was runningabout brandishing a cricket stump in either hand and screaming: an ugly sight. ‘Bah! Bah! Bah!’ prayed the old man, the rain spouting down his back from his uptilted hat.
    ‘Nonsense,’ said I, ‘be a man, remember you’re Crossley. You’re a match for a dozen Richards. You played a game and lost, because Richard had the luck; but you still have the shout.’
    I was feeling rather mad myself. Then theAsylum doctor rushed into the scoring box, his flannels streaming wet, still wearing pads and batting gloves, his glasses gone; he had heard our voices raised, and tore Crossley’s hands from mine. ‘To your dormitory at once, Crossley!’ he ordered.
    ‘I’ll not go,’ said Crossley, proud again, ‘you miserable Snake and Apple Pie Man!’
    The doctor seized him by his coat and tried to hustle him out.
    Crossley flung him off, his eyes blazing with madness. ‘Get out,’ he said, ‘and leave me alone here or I’ll shout. Do you hear? I’ll shout. I’ll kill the whole damn lot of you. I’ll shout the Asylum down. I’ll wither the