Мор - ученик смерти

           Itisafactthatthebestremedyforascumblehangoverisahairofthedog,althoughitshouldmoreaccuratelybecalledatoothofthesharkorpossiblyatreadofthebulldozer.

           ButMortmerelywentonpointingandsaid,inatremblingvoice,’Can’tyouseeit?It’scomingthroughthewall!It’scomingrightthroughthewall!’

           ’Alotofthingscomethroughthewallafteryourfirstdrinkofscumble.Greenhairythings,usually.’

           ’It’sthemist!Can’tyouhearitsizzling?’

           ’Asizzlingmist,isit?’Thelandlordlookedatthewall,whichwasquiteemptyandunmysteriousexceptforafewcobwebs.TheurgencyinMort’svoiceunsettledhim.Hewouldhavepreferredthenormalscalymonsters.Amanknewwherehestoodwiththem.

           ’It’scomingrightacrosstheroom!Can’tyoufeelit?’

           Thecustomerslookedatoneanother.Mortwasmakingthemuneasy.Oneortwoofthemadmittedlaterthattheydidfeelsomething,ratherlikeanicytingle,butitcouldhavebeenindigestion.

           Mortbackedaway,andthengrippedthebar.Heshiveredforamoment.

           ’Look,’saidthelandlord,’ajoke’sajoke,but—’

           ’Youhadagreenshirtonbefore!’

           Thelandlordlookeddown.Therewasanedgeofterrorinhisvoice.

           ’Beforewhat?’hequavered.Tohisastonishment,andbeforehishandcouldcompleteitssurreptitiousjourneytowardstheblackthornstick,Mortlungedacrossthebarandgrabbedhimbytheapron.

           ’You’vegotagreenshirt,haven’tyou?’hesaid.’Isawit,ithadlittleyellowbuttons!’

           ’Well,yes.