“He’d taken off his clothes to the waist, and he didn’t seem to hear me.  I touched him, and came near beating it.  High Jack had turned to stone.  I had been drinking some rum myself.

“‘Ossified!’ I says to him, loudly.  ’I knew what would happen if you kept it up.’

“And then High Jack comes in from the alcove when he hears me conversing with nobody, and we have a look at Mr. Snakefeeder No. 2.  It’s a stone idol, or god, or revised statute or something, and it looks as much like High Jack as one green pea looks like itself.  It’s got exactly his face and size and color, but it’s steadier on its pins.  It stands on a kind of rostrum or pedestal, and you can see it’s been there ten million years.

“‘He’s a cousin of mine,’ sings High, and then he turns solemn.

“‘Hunky,’ he says, putting one hand on my shoulder and one on the statue’s, ‘I’m in the holy temple of my ancestors.’

“‘Well, if looks goes for anything,’ says I, ’you’ve struck a twin.  Stand side by side with buddy, and let’s see if there’s any difference.’

“There wasn’t.  You know an Indian can keep his face as still as an iron dog’s when he wants to, so when High Jack froze his features you couldn’t have told him from the other one.

“‘There’s some letters,’ says I, ’on his nob’s pedestal, but I can’t make ’em out.  The alphabet of this country seems to be composed of sometimes a, e, i, o, and u, but generally z’s, l’s, and t’s.’

“High Jack’s ethnology gets the upper hand of his rum for a minute, and he investigates the inscription.

“‘Hunky,’ says he, ’this is a statue of Tlotopaxl, one of the most powerful gods of the ancient Aztecs.’

“‘Glad to know him,’ says I, ’but in his present condition he reminds me of the joke Shakespeare got off on Julius Caesar.  We might say about your friend: 

   “’Imperious What’s-his-name, dead and turned to stone—­
     No use to write or call him on the ‘phone.’

“‘Hunky,’ says High Jack Snakefeeder, looking at me funny, ’do you believe in reincarnation?’

“‘It sounds to me,’ says I, ’like either a clean-up of the slaughter-houses or a new kind of Boston pink.  I don’t know.’

“‘I believe,’ says he, ’that I am the reincarnation of Tlotopaxl.  My researches have convinced me that the Cherokees, of all the North American tribes, can boast of the straightest descent from the proud Aztec race.  That,’ says he, ’was a favorite theory of mine and Florence Blue Feather’s.  And she—­what if she—­’

“High Jack grabs my arm and walls his eyes at me.  Just then he looked more like his eminent co-Indian murderer, Crazy Horse.

“‘Well,’ says I, ’what if she, what if she, what if she?  You’re drunk,’ says I.  ’Impersonating idols and believing in—­what was it?—­recarnalization?  Let’s have a drink,’ says I.  ’It’s as spooky here as a Brooklyn artificial-limb factory at midnight with the gas turned down.’