The force tapped smartly on the tin.
"Now, just to show you that the psychic is not doing this, can't you
hold up a book between me and the light? I want to see your hand."
Instantly, and to my profound amazement, a book rose in the air, and I
could see _two hands_ in silhouette plainly and vigorously thumbing the
volume, which was held about three feet above the table, and to the
psychic's left.
"Miller," I said, excitedly, "I see hands!"
"I do not," he answered; "but I hear a rustling."
Swift on the trail, I called out: "Now, show me your empty hand,
'Wilbur.' I want to see how big it is." A moment later I exclaimed, in
profound excitement: "I can see a _large_ hand against the window, and,
strangest part of all, the spread fingers are pointing _toward_ Mrs.
Smiley, the wrist is nearest you and at least six feet from the psychic.
It is a man's hand. You are not doing this, Miller?"
"Certainly not!" he answered, curtly.
"This is astonishing! It certainly is a hand and much larger than that
of a woman, and _the wrist is toward you_. It is still at least four
feet from the psychic. Oh, for a flash-light camera now! I was
perfectly certain that this is not the psychic's hand, and yet to admit
that it is not is to grant the whole theory of materialization."
At last the shadow disappeared. The book fell. With a ringing scrape the
cone rose in the air and the voice of "Wilbur" came from it
life-like--almost full-toned, and with a note of humorous exultation
running through it. "_I told you I'd astonish you!_" he said. "_Don't
get in a hurry; there's more coming._"
For nearly two hours thereafter this "spirit voice" kept us all
interested and busy. He was very much alive, and we alternately laughed
at his quaint conceits or pondered the implications of his casual
remarks. It was precisely as if a rollicking Western, or, rather,
Southern, man were speaking to us over the 'phone. I asked: "Who are
you? Is 'Wilbur' your surname?"
"_No; my middle name. My family name is Thompson._"
His characterization was perfect. He responded to every question with
readiness and perfect aplomb. At times he played jokes on us. He bumped
Miller on the head, and touched him on the cheek farthest from the
psychic. At my request he covered Mrs. Miller's ear with the large end
of the horn, then reversed and nuzzled her temple with the small end.
She said it felt like a caress, as if guided by a tender hand. She had
become clairvoyant also, and saw many forms about the room. I could see
nothing.
"Tell us more about yourself, 'Wilbur'?" I asked. "Who are you? What did
you do on the earth?"
"_I was a soldier._"
"In the Civil War?"
"_Yes._"
"On which side?"
"_That's a leading question_," he answered, with some hesitation.
"Oh, come now, the war is over!"
"_I was on the Southern side. I am Jeff. W. Thompson. I was a
brigadier-general._"
"Where were you killed?"
"_I was invalided home to Jefferson City, and passed out there._"
"How do you happen to be 'guide' to this little woman?"
He hesitated again. "_I was attracted to her_," he said, and gave no
further explanation.
"Mitchell" then came and said: "_We are deeply interested in your
experiments, Mr. Garland, and will afford you all the aid in our power.
It is hard to meet your tests--hard, I mean, for our medium, but we will
assist her to fill the requirements._"
"Thank you. I don't see how any psychic could be more submissive."
Mrs. Miller, deeply impressed by all this, began to inquire concerning
those of the invisible host whose names were familiar to her. It was
evident that she, at least, was convinced of their reality.
Meanwhile, the movement of the cone interested Miller more than the
messages. "How does she do it?" he exclaimed several times. "To touch
Mrs. Miller means that the psychic must not only have free use of her
hands: she must rise from her chair and pass behind me and the wall."
"The precision of the action is my amazement," I replied. "I've noticed
this same thing many times. Apparently, darkness is no barrier to action
on the part of these forces. That cone, you will observe, can touch you
on the nose, eyelid, or ear, softly, without jar or jolt. It came to me
just now like a sentient thing--like something human. Such unerring
flight is uncanny. Could any trickster perform in the dark with such
precision and gentleness? Of course this is not conclusive as argument,
but at the same time it has weight. Whose is the eye that directs this
instrument? Can you tell us, 'Wilbur'?"