I heard the key turn. Then Pyecraft's voice said, "Come in."



I turned the handle and opened the door. Naturally I expected to see

Pyecraft.



Well, you know, he wasn't there!



I never had such a shock in my life. There was his sitting-room

in a state of untidy disorder, plates and dishes among the books

and writing things, and several chairs overturned, but Pyecraft--



"It's all right, o' man; shut the door," he said, and then I

discovered him.



There he was right up close to the cornice in the corner by the door,

as though some one had glued him to the ceiling. His face was anxious

and angry. He panted and gesticulated. "Shut the door," he said.

"If that woman gets hold of it--"



I shut the door, and went and stood away from him and stared.



"If anything gives way and you tumble down," I said, "you'll break

your neck, Pyecraft."



"I wish I could," he wheezed.



"A man of your age and weight getting up to kiddish gymnastics--"



"Don't," he said, and looked agonised.



"I'll tell you," he said, and gesticulated.



"How the deuce," said I, "are you holding on up there?"



And then abruptly I realised that he was not holding on at all,

that he was floating up there--just as a gas-filled bladder might

have floated in the same position. He began a struggle to thrust

himself away from the ceiling and to clamber down the wall to me.

"It's that prescription," he panted, as he did so. "Your great-gran--"



He took hold of a framed engraving rather carelessly as he spoke

and it gave way, and he flew back to the ceiling again, while

the picture smashed onto the sofa. Bump he went against the ceiling,

and I knew then why he was all over white on the more salient curves

and angles of his person. He tried again more carefully, coming

down by way of the mantel.



It was really a most extraordinary spectacle, that great, fat,

apoplectic-looking man upside down and trying to get from the ceiling



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