From his bag he took prose and poetry.
"Mix them up, yes?" he asked, and
proceeded to execute what reminded me
of a shell game with the letters.
Finally the letters settled. "Presto",
he said, and laughed like Quasimoto. I
looked at the letters, wondering if I'd
missed something. Then I looked at him.
I now think he was getting more pleasure
out of watching me than the letters.