"Teeth?" spluttered the genteel lunatic; "teeth?"

"Yes," cried Turnbull, advancing on him swiftly and with animated
gestures, "why does teething hurt? Why do growing pains hurt? Why
are measles catching? Why does a rose have thorns? Why do
rhinoceroses have horns? Why is the horn on the top of the nose?
Why haven't I a horn on the top of my nose, eh?" And he struck
the bridge of his nose smartly with his forefinger to indicate
the place of the omission and then wagged the finger menacingly
at the Creator.

"I've often wanted to meet you," he resumed, sternly, after a
pause, "to hold you accountable for all the idiocy and cruelty of
this muddled and meaningless world of yours. You make a hundred
seeds and only one bears fruit. You make a million worlds and
only one seems inhabited. What do you mean by it, eh? What do you
mean by it?"

The unhappy lunatic had fallen back before this quite novel form
of attack, and lifted his burnt-out cigarette almost like one
warding off a blow. Turnbull went on like a torrent.

"A man died yesterday in Ealing. You murdered him. A girl had the
toothache in Croydon. You gave it her. Fifty sailors were drowned
off Selsey Bill. You scuttled their ship. What have you got to
say for yourself, eh?"

The representative of omnipotence looked as if he had left most
of these things to his subordinates; he passed a hand over his