D.
DEAR Bones: Chortle if you want to--your worst prognostications have
come true. The unexpectedness of the sciatic nerve, as set forth in
your parting discourse, has amply proved itself. The dashed thing is
all that you said of it--and more. It did not even permit me to
collapse gracefully--or to choose my public. Your other man had a
policeman, hadn't he?
Here I am, stranded upon a sofa from which I cannot get up and
detained indefinitely upon a mountain from which I cannot get down.
My nurse (I have a nurse) refuses to admit the mountain. She insists
upon referring to this dizzy height as "just above sea-level" and
declares that the precipitous ascent thereto is "a slight grade."
Otherwise she is quite sane.
But sanity is more than I feel justified in claiming for anyone else
in this household. There is Li Ho, for instance. Well, I'm not
certain about Li Ho. He may be Chinese-sane. My nurse says he is.
But I have no doubts at all about my host. He is so queer that I
sometimes wonder if he is not a figment. Perhaps I imagine him. If
so, my imagination is going strong. What I seem to see is a little
old man in a frock coat so long that his legs (like those of the
Queen of Spain) are negligible. He has a putty colored face (so
blurred that I keep expecting him to rub it out altogether), white
hair, pale blue eyes--and an umbrella.
Yesterday, attempting to establish cordial relations, I asked him
why the umbrella.
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