On mature deliberation I have decided that I shall keep on knuckle-talking." He stared at me speechlessly for a moment, and then, out of sheer impotency, turned to go.
"One question, please." "What is it ?" he demanded over his shoulder.
"What are you going to do about it ?" From the choleric exhibition he gave there and then it has been an unceasing wonder with me to this day that he has not long since died of apoplexy.
Hour by hour, after the warden's discomfited departure, I rapped on and on the tale of my adventures.

Not until that night, when Pie-Face Jones came on duty and proceeded to steal his customary naps, were Morrell and Oppenheimer able to do any talking.
"Pipe dreams," Oppenheimer rapped his verdict.
Yes, was my thought; our experiences _are_ the stuff of our dreams.
"When I was a night messenger I hit the hop once," Oppenheimer continued.
"And I want to tell you you haven't anything on me when it came to seeing things.

I guess that is what all the novel-writers do--hit the hop so as to throw their imagination into the high gear." But Ed Morrell, who had travelled the same road as I, although with different results, believed my tale.

He said that when his body died in the jacket, and he himself went forth from prison, he was never anybody but Ed Morrell.

He never experienced previous existences.