Silence held them all up again, and then the doctor said rather sulkily: "Well, I may be wrong; there are objections to everything. But I stick to the main point. No man but an i***t would pick up that little hammer if he could use a big hammer."
With that the lean and quivering hands of Wilfred Bohun went up to his head and seemed to clutch his scanty yellow hair. After an instant they dropped, and he cried: "That was the word I wanted; you have said the word."
Then he continued, mastering his discomposure: "The words you said were, 'No man but an i***t would pick up the small hammer.'"
"Yes," said the doctor. "Well?"
"Well," said the curate, "no man but an i***t did." The rest stared at him with eyes arrested and riveted, and he went on in a febrile and feminine agitation.
"I am a p
