The mauve light flickered eerily, and as we went in the table’s movement—it was like dancing—became almost frantic. My wife drew two chairs up to it, one on each side, and nodded to me to sit down. Then, to my astonishment, she placed her hands on the top of the table, with the fingers spread wide, and again nodded to me to do the same, with the ends of my fingers touching hers.

The response of the table was extraordinary. If ever a table might be said to give a sigh of relief, that was what it did. It became quiet, and almost soft under our hands; it seemed to be waiting.

“What’s up?” I whispered.

My wife said nothing, but nodded to her book, which she had placed on the floor. I saw that it was Colonel Stacey’s book, A Very Double Life.

“This must be the Little Table,” said she.

It is a commonplace to say that women have extraordinary powers of intuition. As soon as she had spoken I understood the connection. Because, as those of you know who have read it, that book describes how the late Prime Minister, and his lifelong friend and associate in spiritualism, Mrs. Patteson, used to spend long, rapt hours with a Little Table, by means of which they communicated with the spirits of the dead. Little Table; Mrs. Patteson; at last I understood.

The Little Table! The table dignified, or perhaps I should say hallowed, by all those conversations Mr. King recorded in his diary, and Professor Stacey had made known to us. I felt myself uplifted, to be thus involved with—and indeed snuggled up to by—an object so rich in association. The psychic history of Canada is scant, and here I was, so to speak, getting in on the ground floor! I felt myself unworthy. I felt that I should at once telephone to Professor Stacey, or to Maurice Careless, and ask them to come at once for—well, for what? I didn’t know what the Little Table had, so to speak, on its mind.

I know the proceeding for getting answers from tables when they are in a communicative mood. I spoke.

“The usual thing, I presume?” I said. “One rap for yes; two for no, and otherwise raps in series indicating the letters of the alphabet. Is that what you have in mind?”

Firmly, and it seemed to me joyously, the Little Table knocked once. That is to say it gave a quick tap with one tiny hoof upon the floor. It had said Yes.

“Are you there, Mrs. Patteson?” I said.

Two taps, in rather a pettish mood.

“Then who are you?” said I.

The table burst into a gunfire of tapping that startled me. “Just a minute,” I said; “not quite so fast.” Again the table rattled out its message. I am not at my best when confronted with problems involving figures. There seemed to be a great many taps. “Did you say Z?” I asked. “No, no,” my wife whispered; “it was twenty-one taps. What is twenty-one? How many letters are there in the alphabet?” “Twenty-eight, of course,” I hissed. “Would you mind repeating?”

The Little Table gave two vicious little kicks, one to each side. My wife took it on the ankle, I on the shin. Then it rattled away in its telegraphic style, like one of those old-fashioned Morse instruments one heard clicking in the railway stations of an earlier day.

It was hopeless. “Will you wait a moment,” said I. “I want to make a helpful little chart.”

It used to be said that cobbler’s children were always barefoot; by some kindred freak of Fate author’s houses are always barren of pencils and paper. But at last I found what I wanted, and laboriously wrote out the alphabet, which—try as I might—proved to have only twenty-six letters, and to each letter I assigned a number. I didn’t quite dare to lay this handy device on the Little Table; I feared it might scorn the simplicity of my mind. So I put it beside me on the floor. “Now fire away,” I said; “who is speaking, please?”

Spiteful little beast that it was, the table now tapped with tedious, insulting slowness. But at least it was possible to follow its message. Twenty-three taps.

“V,” said my wife. “No, no; it was X,” said I.

Again those spiteful kicks. I should explain that the Little Table had what furniture experts call “ball-and-claw feet”, and it hurt. Then it tapped again, even more slowly.

This time we got it right. “W,” we exclaimed in concert. The table tapped once.

“A,” said I.

“No, it means yes,” said my wife. “It was W.”

Next time, twelve slow taps. L. Then thirteen taps. M. Then eleven taps. K.

“W L M K,” said I. “Doesn’t mean a thing.”

I still bear the marks of the ferocious attack of the ball-and-claw feet. But I have mentioned that women have extraordinary intuition. “William Lyon Mackenzie King,” said my wife, in a low, reverential tone; “it must be Mr. King himself.”

We rose and bowed to the Little Table, and it tipped its stout little person in ceremonious acknowledgement.

When I am not on duty as Master of this College I allow myself to use certain slang expressions that were current in my youth. “Now we’re cooking with gas,” I said. And the Little Table rapped once. Yes.

What should I say? Once, in my youth, I met Mr. King. He was old and near to death: I was young and impressionable, and I still remember the penetration of his glance, which seemed to be looking right through me, and weighing my possible value to the Liberal Party. He did not speak. I said—I remember the phrase perfectly, because it seemed to me to be particularly apt, under the circumstances—I said, “How do you do, Sir?” Now I said it again, taking up the conversation from the point where it had been dropped all those many years ago.

The Little Table tapped briskly, now. Nine: pause; one, thirteen: pause; twenty-two, five, eighteen, twenty-five; pause: twenty-three, five, twelve, and twelve again. “He said, ‘I am very well,’ “ I whispered to my wife. “I know,” said she: “I was counting.”

I shall not give you all the detail of the conversation that followed. The counting was hard work, not merely because Mr. King was a somewhat impetuous rapper, but because he was, to my surprise, an impressionistic speller. So I shall merely tell you what was said, shorn of all the psychic trappings.

“Am I to infer that you are among the Blessed?” said I.

The answer, now I reflect on it, was ambiguous. “I am among friends,” said WLMK.

“Liberals?” I asked.

“Naturally,” came the reply.

“Ask him about Sir Wilfrid Laurier,” my wife prompted.

“Is Sir Wilfrid with you?”

One rap. “Yes.”

“Happy, I trust?”

Here the Little Table seemed to lose control of itself. It tapped very rapidly, in a singular rhythm; eight-one, eight-one, eight-one. Which, as you have immediately grasped, is Ha, Ha, Ha! Then some very rapid tapping which, so far as I could follow it, said something about somebody’s nose being out of joint. Then the laughing signal again. I was about to ask if Sir Wilfrid had suffered some posthumous damage to his nose, and how, and why, but I saw my wife frowning and shaking her head. So I dropped the subject of Sir Wilfrid.

What next? Extraordinary as it may seem, I could not think of a thing to say to the spirit of Mr. King. My wife saw that I was at a loss. “Try him about his dog,” said she.

“Dog?” said I, not understanding.

“Pat,” said she; “his dear doggie, his greatest friend.”

I have never cared much for dogs. But I know that dog-lovers are susceptible to flattery on the subject of their pets, and I felt that I had put my foot in it about Sir Wilfrid; Laurier, and must recover lost ground. “How’s Pat?” I asked.

The table seemed to brighten up. It did some frisky tapping. Two-fifteen-twenty-three: twenty-three-fifteen-twenty-three. Bow-wow. Obviously it was Pat himself talking, so I feigned great benevolence and patted the table with the faux bonhomie I adopt toward other people’s dogs. The table responded by rapping twenty-three, fifteen, fifteen again, and six. Woof. And, so far as I was concerned, that was enough from Pat.