“Hell!” I cried.
Well, I mean to say, who wouldn’t have? I saw right away what had happened. Someone, as the poet says, had blundered. Joey Cooley and I must have gone under the gas at exactly the same moment and, owing presumably to some bad staffwork during the period when we were simultaneously sauntering about in the fourth dimension, or whatever they call it, there had been an unforeseen switch. The impetuous young cuckoo had gone and barged into my body, and I, having nowhere else to go, had toddled off and got into his.
His fault, of course, the silly ass. I had told him to stop shoving.