I thought of people in the Other World from whom I might like to have a message. Vincent Massey, of course! Often, since his death, I have wished I could have the benefit of his advice. “How is Mr. Massey?” I asked. The table tapped sulkily for a few seconds.

“Don’t know and don’t care,” was the message.

I remembered what I should have thought of earlier. Mr. King and Mr. Massey had not seen eye to eye.

“Still scrapping,” I whispered to my wife. But the Little Table overheard me, and tapped some very rapid comment which caught me off my guard, so that I was only able to transcribe the words “opinionated,” “insubordinate” and “elitist”. But whether they referred to Mr. Massey or to me, I cannot say.

This was discouraging. I saw no reason why I should sit in this College and listen to Mr. King being nasty about its Founder. But what was there to say? He seemed to be so touchy. Then I had what I supposed was a happy inspiration. I noticed the copy of A Very Double Life that my wife had placed on the floor beside her.

“Have you read Colonel Stacey’s book?” I asked.

There was a significant pause. Then a single rap. Yes.

“It’s selling very well,” I said, glad to be on an ample and chatty theme at last. “You must be pleased.”

It seemed to me that the temperature in the room dropped suddenly. “Oh, you think that, do you?” rapped the Little Table, with unusual deliberation. I was overcome by one of my terrible failures of tact. I am generally pretty good at tact, but as it is an acquired faculty with me, and not an inherent trait, I sometimes put my foot in it, when talking to difficult people. “I suppose you are glad to be an object of so much interest,” I said.

The Little Table rapped and rapped and rapped. “I should have thought that my career offered enough of interest to the people of the country to which I devoted the whole of my career comma and my not inconsiderable talents,” it said, “without a discussion of my youthful work among fallen women. Poor comma unhappy creatures dash ‘soiled doves’ was the term I always applied to them when I thought about them dash I went among them with but one thought in mind. I sought comma by talking to them seriously and sympathetically about the principles of Liberalism comma to win them from a life of shame to useful political activity. But so far as I could discover, not one of them ever went to the polls to cast the vote which was her democratic birth-right. I should have thought that in the present enthusiasm for Women’s Liberation dash a cause very dear to my heart, as it was near to the heart of the noble woman who was the inspiration of all that was best in me dash I allude, needless to say, to my dear Mother—” And here there was a pause, which, as an old aficionado of political meetings I knew was meant for applause, so I applauded loudly; after I had made my hands very red, the Little Table resumed. “I should have thought, I say, that my name would be mentioned as one of the earliest enthusiasts for the Women’s Cause semi-colon that I should be mentioned with Henrik Ibsen comma with Bernard Shaw comma with the sainted Christabel Pankhurst and the never sufficiently to be lauded Nellie McClung. But it was not to be. No comma it has been suggested that my interest in women was of a carnal origin. And all because Jack Pickersgill hadn’t the common gumption to destroy those damned diaries. Now you listen to me, young man—” and the Little Table rapped on and on. I was so stunned to be addressed as “young man” that I forgot to count, and I observed that my wife was becoming drowsy under the spell of Mr. King’s platform style and the tediousness of all that rapped-out punctuation. At last, after something like half an hour of telegraphed eloquence, the Little Table was still.

“Sorry about that,” said I. “But I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do about it. Shall I arrange an encounter with the author of the book? Would you like to rap with Colonel Stacey?”

Two decisive raps. No. And that was all. Worn out with our night listening to the mighty dead, my wife and I crept upstairs, to seek much needed repose.

I wanted to go back the next night, but my wife disagreed. “He’ll make another speech,” said she. “Besides, I think it’s unlucky to quarrel with spirits. Leave the wretched table alone, and I’ll get it out of the house as soon as I can.” And there, for some time, the matter rested.

There is in my nature a generous portion of curiosity. I make no apology for it, and indeed I encourage and cherish it. Curiosity is part of the cement that holds society together; for many years I was a journalist, and a journalist without curiosity is useless. After Quebec’s historic decision in the election of November 15 you will understand how I itched to have another talk with the Little Table. There must be something to be got out of the ghost of Mackenzie King, some scoop which I could, at the right moment, reveal to the world. So, after a few weeks of iron self-control, I broke down, and crept away by myself to the room in the depths of my house.

It was December the sixth when I went to the room where the Little Table was. My spirits rose as I saw that the glow of purple light arose from it, even more intense than it had been before. Would I be able to establish contact through it, I wondered, without the help of another person? I sat down and placed my hands, fingers spread, on its surface. I need not have worried; immediately I felt the thrill that told me the Little Table was ready to speak.

“Mr. King, are you there?” I whispered.

The retort was not in the best of. humour. “What do you think?” the table rapped. “You’ve been away long enough. What brings you here now?”

“It is the sixth of December,” I said.

“What of it?” rapped the table.

“It is St. Nicholas’s day,” I replied. “He has always been kind to me.”

“Do you expect me as a Presbyterian, to pay attention to such rubbish,” said the spirit of Mackenzie King, in a series of short, brittle raps.

Off to a bad start, I thought. It is one of my weaknesses to imagine that everybody shares my enthusiasm for saints. The Little Table was clicking on.

“Superstition will be the ruin of you, Davies,” it said. “I have seen many a man of minor talents, like yourself, go utterly to pot because of superstition. Brace up, man, comma brace up.”

Look who’s talking, I thought. This is the man who spent so many of his private hours talking to spirits by means of this very Little Table at which I now sit. This is the man who addresses me by this tedious, farcical business of table-rapping, instead of manifesting himself and talking to me ghost to man, as a serious spirit should. But I subdued my indignation and spoke gently.

“I have come,” I said, “because I hope that you will favour me with an exclusive interview. I should greatly value your opinion of the present state of Confederation. Taking the long view—which I assume is one of the prerogatives of your present position—what do you think is likely to happen in Quebec? Is Separatism a political gambit or a genuine threat?”

There was a pause. Then—”Don’t trouble me with such nonsense,” rapped Mr. King. “Do you suppose I have nothing to keep me busy here? My present Cabinet demands the most careful management, in spite of my success in bringing about a decisive Tory overthrow—”

I could hold in no longer. For the first time, I interrupted the Little Table. I seized it and held it firmly to the ground, thereby, so to speak, choking Mr. King off in mid-speech. This was precisely what I wanted.

“Cabinet?” I said. “Tory overthrow? Do you mean that you are in power in—in—?” I did not know how to finish the question.

“The greatest victory of my career,” came the reply. “I have reduced the Tories to a miserable, seedy rump, and their Leader is trying to prevent a final break.”