my sanctuary by
Jerry's Huns. Carty and Flynn were having a fast "go" of it on the
floor, with Monroe, the Swedish negro, keeping time, while from beyond
came sounds of howling where "Kid" Spatola and Tim O'Halloran were
sporting like healthy grampuses in Jerry's--my--marble pool. Jerry
made the introductions gayly and O'Halloran splashed a greeting, while
Spatola eyed my rusty black serge critically (Spatola was the Beau
Brummel of the party as I discovered later) nodded, and then did a
back flip-flap from the diving board.

But unwelcome as they were to me, they were not nearly so unpleasant
in a state of nature as they had been in their clothing, for when
considered as sentient beings they left much to be desired; as healthy
human animals, I had to admit that they were a success, and having
conceded the fact that they were animals and Horsham Manor was for the
present a zoo, the rest was merely a matter of mental adjustment. I
played my part of host, I fear, with a bad grace, but as manners held
no high place in their code of being, my deficiencies passed
unnoticed.

Was this triumph of matter over mind nature's cynical reply to my
years of care and study in bringing Jerry to perfect manhood? Had I
erred in giving importance to the growth and development of Jerry's
body? Or was it, as Jack Ballard had said, merely that the nice
adjustment of mind and matter had been suddenly disarranged? How far
was this muscular orgy to carry him? And where would it end? After
Madison Square Garden--what?

Dinner found me no nearer a solution and I sighed as my glance passed
the length of the table, along the row of villainous faces to where
opposite me Jim Robinson grinned cheerfully over his plate. It was
quite wonderful to see these Vandals eat--beefsteak, bread,
vegetables, eggs, milk--everything put before them vanished as if by
magic, while Poole and Christopher with set and scornful faces hurried
to the pantry, bearing in their empty dishes the mute evidence of the
gastronomic miracles that were being performed beneath their very
eyes. For my part I confess that I was so fascinated in watching the
way in which Sagorski used his knife and fork and the dexterous manner
in which he dispatched his food in spite of such a handicap that I ate
nothing. They talked in mono-syllables and grunts for the most part,
and when really conversing used language which I found it most
difficult to understand. Their dinner finished, they ros