That's the idea."
Beverly-Jones showed his new boat-house next and Poppleton
knocked a hole in the side with a hammer to show that
the lumber was too thin.
"If that were _my_ boat-house," he said, "I'd rip the
outside clean off it and use shingle and stucco."
It was, I noticed, Poppleton's plan first to imagine
Beverly-Jones's things his own, and then to smash them,
and then give them back smashed to Beverly-Jones. This
seemed to please them both. Apparently it is a
well-understood method of entertaining a guest and being
entertained. Beverly-Jones and Poppleton, after an hour
or so of it, were delighted with one another.
Yet somehow, when I tried it myself, it failed to work.
"Do you know what I would do with that cedar summer-house
if it was mine?" I asked my host the next day.
"No," he said.
"I'd knock the thing down and burn it," I answered.
But I think I must have said it too fiercely. Beverly-Jones
looked hurt and said nothing.
Not that these people are not doing all they can for me.
I know that. I admit it. If I _should_ meet my end here
and if--to put the thing straight out--_my_ lifeless body
is found floating on the surface of this pond, I should
like there to be documentary evidence of _that_ much.
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