Peace restored and the orders given, which included a pledge of secrecy as to Jerry’s real identity and mine, I made my way to the gymnasium with Jerry in a valiant effort to “be a good sport” and to appear as “pleased as punch” at the invasion of 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 rose, stretching and eructating in true Rabelaisian fashion.

“A stroll in the Park, byes, now.  And then—­the feathers,” said Flynn, passing the chewing gum.

“A fine lot, ain’t they, Mr. Benham?” said Jerry to me as they filed out.