[Illustration: Decorative J]
ust how it came about, or how he came to get so far ahead, Dawson never
knew, but the details are, after all, unimportant. It is what happened,
and not how it happened, that concerns us. Suffice it to say that as he
waked up that Christmas morning, Dawson became conscious of a great
change in himself. He had gone to bed the night before worn in body and
weary in spirit. Things had not gone particularly well with him through
the year. Business had been unwontedly dull, and his efforts to augment
his income by an occasional operation on the Street had brought about
precisely the reverse of that for which he had hoped. This morning,
however, all seemed right again. His troubles had in some way become
mere memories of a remote past. So far from feeling bodily fatigue,
which had been a pressingly insistent sensation of his waking moments of
late, he experienced a startling sense of absolute freedom from all
physical limitation whatsoever. The room in which he slept seemed also
to have changed. The pictures on the walls were not only not the same
pictures that had been there when he had gone to bed the night before,
but appeared, even as he watched them, to change in color and in
composition, to represent real action rather than a mere semblance
thereof.
"Humph!" he muttered, as a lithograph copy of "The Angelus" before him
went through a process of enlivenment wherein the bell actually did
ring, the peasants bowing their heads as in duty bound, and then
resuming their work again. "I feel like a bird, but I must be a trifle
woozy. I never saw pictures behave that way before." Then he tried to
stretch himself, and observed, with a feeling of mingled astonishment
and alarm, that he had nothing to stretch with. He had no legs, no
arms--no body at all. He was about to indulge in an ejaculation of
dismay, but there was no time for it, for, even as he began, a
terrifying sound, as of rushing horses, over his bed attracted his
attention. Investigation showed that this was caused by an engraving of
Gerome's "Chariot Race," which hung on the wall above his pillow--an
engraving which held the same peculiar attributes that had astonished
him in the marvellous lithograph of "The Angelus" opposite. The thing
itself was actually happening up there. The horses and chariots would
appear in the perspective rushing madly along the course, and then,
reaching the limits of the frame, would disappear, apparently into thin
air, amid the shoutings and clamorings of the pictured populace. Three
times it looked as if a mass of horseflesh, chariots, charioteers, and
dust would be precipitated upon the bed, and if Dawson could have found
his head there is no doubt whatever that he would have ducked it.
"I must get out of this," he cried. "But," he added, as his mind
reverted to his disembodied condition, "how the deuce can I? What'll I
get out with?"
The answer was instant. By the mere exercise of the impulse to be
elsewhere the wish was gratified, and Dawson found himself opposite the
bureau which stood at the far end of the room.
"Wonder how I look without a body?" he thought, as he ranged his
faculties before the glass. But the mirror was of no assistance in the
settlement of this problem, for, now that Dawson was mere consciousness
only, the mirror gave back no evidence of his material existence.
"This is awful!" he moaned, as he turned and twisted his mind in a mad
effort to imagine how he looked. "Where in thunder can I have left
myself?"
As he spoke the door opened, and a man having the semblance of a valet
entered.
[Illustration: "'GOOD-MORNING, MR. DAWSON'"]
"Good-morning, Mr. Dawson," said the valet--for that is what the
intruder was--busying himself about the room. "I hope you find yourself
well this morning?"
"I can't find myself at all this morning!" retorted Dawson. "What the
devil does this mean? Where's my body?"
"Which one, sir?" the valet inquired, respectfully, pausing in his
work.
"Which one?" echoed Dawson. "Wh--which--Oh, Lord! Excuse me, but how
many bodies do I happen to have?" he added.
"Five--though a gentleman of your position, sir, ought to have at least
ten, if I may make so bold as to speak, sir," said the valet. "Your golf
body is pretty well used up, sir, you've played so many holes with it;
and I really think you need a new one for evening wear, sir. The one you
got from London is rather shabby, don't you think? It can't digest the
simplest kind of a dinner, sir."
"The one I got from London, eh?" said Dawson. "I got a body in London,
did I? And where's the one I got in Paris?" he demanded, sarcastically.
"You gave that to the coachman, sir," replied the valet. "It never
fitted you, and, as you said yourself, it was rather gaudy, sir."
"Oh--I said that, did I? It was one of these loud, assertive, noisy
bodies, eh?"
"Yes, sir, extremely so. None of your friends liked you in it, sir,"
said the valet. "Shall I fetch your lounging body, or will you wish to
go to church this morning?" he continued.
"Bring 'em all in; bring every blessed bone of 'em," said Dawson. "I
want to see how I look in 'em all; and bring me a morning paper."
"A what, sir?" asked the valet, apparently somewhat perplexed by the
order.
"A morning paper, you idiot!" retorted Dawson, growing angry at the
question. The man seemed to be so very stupid.
"I don't quite understand what you wish, sir," said the valet,
apologetically.
"Oh, you don't, eh?" said Dawson, amazed as well as annoyed at the man's
seeming lack of sense. "Well, I want to read the news--"
"Ah! Excuse me, Mr. Dawson," said the valet. "I did not understand. You
want the _Daily Ticker_."
"Oh, do I?" ejaculated Dawson. "Well, if you know what I want better
than I do, bring me what you think I want, and add to it a cup of coffee
and a roll."
"I beg your pardon!" the valet returned.
"A cup of coffee and a roll!" roared Dawson. "Don't you know what a cup
of coffee and a roll is or are? Just ask the cook, will you--"
"Ask the what, sir?" asked the valet, very respectfully.
"The cook! the cook! the cook!" screamed Dawson. His patience was
exhausted by such manifest dulness.
"I--I'm sincerely anxious to please you, Mr. Dawson," said his man; "but
really, sir, you speak so strangely this morning, I hardly know what to
do. I--"
"Can't you understand that I'm hungry?" demanded Dawson.
"Oh!" said the valet. "Hungry, of course; yes, you should be at this
time in the morning; but--er--your bodies have already been refreshed,
sir; I have attended to all that as usual."
"Ah! You've attended to all that, eh? And I've breakfasted, have I?"
"Your bodies have all been fed, sir," said the valet.
"Never mind me, then," said Dawson. "Bring in those well-fed figures of
mine, and let me look at 'em. Meanwhile, turn on the--er--_Daily
Ticker_."
The valet bowed, walked across the room, and touched a button on a
board which had escaped Dawson's vigilant eye--possibly because his
vigilant eye was elsewhere--and, with a sigh of perplexity, left the
room. The response to the button pressure was immediate. A clicking as
of a stock-ticker began to make itself heard, and from one corner of the
bureau a strip of paper tape covered with letters of one kind and
another emerged. Dawson watched it unfold for a moment, and then,
approaching it, took in the types that were printed upon it. In an
instant he understood a portion of the situation at least, although he
did not wholly comprehend it. The date was December 25, 3568. He had
gone to bed on Christmas eve, 1898. What had become of the intervening
years he knew not--but this was undoubtedly the year of grace 3568, if
the ticker was to be believed--and tickers rarely lie, as most
stock-speculators know. Instead of living in the nineteenth century,
Dawson had in some wise leaped forward into the thirty-sixth.
"Great Scott!" he cried. "Where have I been all this time? I don't
wonder my poor old body is gone!"
And then he started to peruse the news. The first item was a statement
of governmental intent. It read something like a court circular.
"It is pleasant to announce on Christmas morning," he read, "that the
business of the Administration has proven so successful during the year
that all loyal citizens, on and after January 1, will be paid $10,000 a
month instead of only $7600, as hitherto. The United States Railway
Department, under the management of our distinguished Secretary of
Railways, Mr. Hankinson Rawley, shows a profit of $750,000,000,000 for
the year. Mr. Johnneymaker, Secretary of Groceries, estimates the
profits of his department at $600,000,000,000, and the Secretary of War
announces that the three highly successful series of battles between
France and Germany held at the Madison Square Garden have netted the
Treasury over $500,000 apiece--no doubt due to the fact that Emperor
Bismarck XXXVII. and King Dreyfus XLVIII. led their troops in person.
The showing of the Navy Department is quite as good. The good business
sense of Secretary Smithers in securing the naval fights between Russia
and the Anglo-Indians for American waters is fully established by the
results. The twenty encounters between his Indo-Britannic Majesty's
Arctic squadron and the Czar's Baltic fleet in Boston Harbor alone have
cleared for our citizens $150,000,000 above the guarantees to the two
belligerents; whereas the bombardment of St. Petersburg by the
Anglo-Indians under our management, thanks to the efficient service of
the Cook excursion-steamers direct to the scene of action, has brought
us in several hundred millions more. It should be quite evident by this
time that the Barnum & Bailey party have shown themselves worthy of the
people's confidence."
Dawson forgot all about his possible bodily complications in reading
this. Here was the United States gone into business, and instead of
levying taxes was actually paying dividends. It was magnificent.
One might have thought that the unexpected announcement of the
possession of an income of $120,000 a year would be sufficient to
destroy any interest in whatever other news the _Ticker_ might present;
but with Dawson it only served to whet his curiosity, and he read on:
"The acquirement of the department stores by the government in 2433 has
proven a decided success. Floorwalker-General Barker announces that the
last of the bonds given in payment for the good-will of these
institutions have matured and been paid off. This, too, out of the
profits of four centuries. It is true that the laws requiring citizens
to patronize these have helped much to bring about this desirable
effect, and some credit for the present wholly satisfactory condition of
affairs should be given to Senator Barca di Cinchona, of Peru, for
having, in 2830, introduced the bill which for the time being covered
him with execration. The profits for the coming year, on a conservative
estimate, cannot be less than eighteen trillions of dollars--which, as
our readers can see, will add much to the prosperity of the nation."
"Worse and worse!" cried Dawson. "Floorwalker-General--compulsory
custom--eighteen trillions of dollars!" And then he read again:
"It will be with unexpected pleasure this Christmas morning, too, that
our citizens will read the President's proclamation, in view of the
unexampled prosperity of the past year, ordering a bonus of $15,000 gold
to be delivered to every family in the land as a Christmas present from
the Administration. This will relieve the vaults of the national
Treasury of a store of coin that has been somewhat embarrassing to
handle. The delivery-wagons will start on their rounds at six o'clock,
and it is expected that by midday the money will have been wholly
distributed. Residents of large cities are requested not to keep the
carriers waiting at the door, since, as will be readily understood, the
delivery of so much coin to so many millions of people is not an easy
task. It is suggested that barrels of attested capacity be left on the
walk, so that the coin may be placed into these without unnecessary
delay. Those who still retain the old-fashioned coal-chutes can have the
gold dumped into their cellars direct if they will simply have the
covers to the coal-holes removed."
Dawson could hardly believe the announcement. Here was $15,000 coming
to him this very morning. It was too good to be true, he thought; but
the news was soon confirmed by the valet, who interrupted his reading by
bursting breathlessly into the room.
"What on earth are we going to do, Mr. Dawson?" he cried. "The Christmas
present has arrived. The cart is outside now."
"Do?" retorted Dawson. "Do? Why, get a shovel and shovel it in. What
else?"
"That's easier said than done, sir," said the valet. "The gold-bin is
chock-full already. You couldn't get a two-cent piece into the cellar,
much less three thousand five-dollar gold pieces. They'd ought to have
sent that money in certified checks."
Dawson experienced a sensation of mirth. The idea of quarrelling as to
the form of a $15,000 gift struck him as being humorous.
"Isn't there any place but the gold-bin you can put it in?" he demanded.
"How about the silver-bin, is that full?"
"I don't know what you mean by the silver-bin," replied the valet.
"People don't use silver for money nowadays, sir."
"Oh, they don't, eh? And what do they do with it--pave streets?"
The valet smiled.
"You are having your little joke with me this morning, Mr. Dawson," he
said, "or else you have forgotten that all we do with silver now is to
make it into bricks and build houses with 'em."
"Well, I'll be hanged!" cried Dawson. "Really?"
"Certainly, sir," observed the valet. "You must remember how silver
gradually cheapened and cheapened until finally it ruined the clay-brick
industry?"
"Ah, yes," said Dawson. "I had temporarily forgotten. I do remember the
tendency of silver to cheapen, but the ruin of the brick industry has
escaped me. This house is--ah--built of silver bricks?"
"Of course it is, Mr. Dawson. As if you didn't know!" said the valet,
with a deprecatory smirk.
"Ah--about how much coal--I mean gold--have we in the cellar?" Dawson
asked.
"In eagles we have $230,000, sir, but I think there's half a million in
fivers. I haven't counted up the $20 pieces for eight weeks, but I
think we have a couple of tons left, sir."
"Then, James-- Is your name James?"
"Yes, sir--James, or whatever else you please, sir," said the valet,
accommodatingly.
"Then, James, if I have all that ready cash in the cellar, you can have
the $15,000 that has just come. I--ah--I don't think I shall need it
to-day," said Dawson, in a lordly fashion.
"Me, sir?" said James. "Thank you, sir, but really I have no place to
put it. I don't know what to do with what I have already on hand."
"Then give it to the poor," said Dawson, desperately.
Again the valet smiled. He evidently thought his master very queer this
morning.
"There ain't any poor any more, sir," he said.
"No poor?" cried Dawson.
"Of course not," said James. "Really. Mr. Dawson, you seem to have
forgotten a great deal. Don't you remember how the forty-seventh
amendment to the Constitution abolished poverty?"
"I--ah--I am afraid, James," said Dawson, gasping for breath, "that I've
had a stroke of some kind during the night. All these things of which
you speak seem--er--seem a little strange to me, James. There seems to
be some lesion in my brain somewhere. Tell me about--er--how things are.
Am I still in the United States?"
"Yes, sir, you are still in the United States."
"And the United States is bounded on the north by--"
"Sir, the United States has no northerly or southerly boundary. The
Western Hemisphere is now the United States."
"And Europe?"
"Europe has not changed much since 1900, sir. Don't you remember how in
the early years of the twentieth century the whole Eastern Hemisphere
became European?"
"I remember that we took part in the division of China," said Dawson.
"Oh yes," said James, "quite so. But in 1920 don't you recall how we
swapped off our share in China, together with the Dewey Islands, for
Canada and all other British possessions on this side of the earth?"
"Dimly, James, only dimly," said Dawson, astonished, as well he might
be, at the news, since he had never even imagined anything of the kind,
although the Dewey Islands needed no explanation. "And we have
ultimately acquired the whole hemisphere?"
"Yes, sir," replied James. "The South American republics came in
naturally in 1940, and the Mexican War in 2363 ended, as it had to, in
the conquest of Mexico."
"And, tell me, what are we doing with Patagonia?"
"One of the most flourishing States in the Union, Mr. Dawson. It was
made the Immigrant State, sir. All persons immigrating to the United
States, by an act of Congress passed in 2480, were compelled to go to
Patagonia first, and forced to live there for a period of five years,
studying American conditions, after which, provided they could pass an
examination showing themselves equal to the duties of citizenship, they
were permitted to go wherever else in the States they might choose."
"And suppose they couldn't pass?" Dawson asked.
"They had to stay in Patagonia until they could," said James. "It is
known as the School of Instruction of the States. It is also our penal
colony. Instead of prisons, we have a section of Patagonia set apart for
the criminal element."
"And the negro?" asked Dawson. "How about him?"
"The negro, Mr. Dawson, if the histories say rightly, was an awful
problem for a great many years. He had so many good points and so many
bad that no one knew exactly what to do about him. Finally the
sixty-third amendment was passed, ordering his deportation to Africa. It
seemed like a hardship at first, but in 2863 he pulled himself together,
and to-day has a continent of his own. Africa is his, and when nations
are at war together they hire their troops from Africa. They make
splendid soldiers, you know."
"What's become of Krueger and--er--Rhodes?" Dawson asked. "Turned
black?"
James laughed. "Oh, Rhodes and Krueger! Why, as I remember it, they
smashed each other. But that is ancient history, Mr. Dawson."
"Jove!" cried Dawson. "What changes!" And then an idea crossed his mind.
"James," said he, "pack up my luggage. We'll go to London."
"Where?" asked James.
"To the British capital," returned Dawson.
"Very well, sir," said James. "I will buy return tickets for Calcutta at
once, sir. Shall we go on the 1.10 or the 3.40? The 1.10 is an express,
but the 3.40 has a buffet."
"Which is the quicker?" Dawson asked.
"The 3.40 goes through in thirty-five minutes, sir. The 1.10 does it in
half an hour."
"Great Scott!" said Dawson. "I think, on the whole, James, I won't try
it until to-morrow. Calcutta, eh!" he added to himself. "James," he
continued, "when did Calcutta become the British capital?"
"In 2964, sir," said James.
"And London?" queried Dawson.
"I don't know much about those island towns, sir," said James. "It's
said that London was once the British capital, but sensible people don't
believe it much. Why, it hasn't more than twenty million inhabitants,
mostly tailors."
"And how many citizens does a modern city have to have, to amount to
anything, James?" asked Dawson, faintly.
"Well," said James scratching his head reflectively, "one hundred and
sixty or two hundred millions, according to the last census."
"And New York reaches to where?" Dawson asked, in a tentative manner.
"Oh, not very far. It's only third, you know, in population. The last
town annexed was Buffalo. The trouble with New York is that it has
reached the limits of the State on every side. We'd make it bigger if we
could, but Pennsylvania and Ohio and New Jersey won't give up an inch;
and Canada is very jealous of her old boundaries."
"Wisely," said Dawson. And then he chose to be sarcastic. "Why don't
they fill in the ocean with ashes and extend the city over the Atlantic,
James? In an age of such marvellous growth so much waste space should
be utilized," he said.
"Oh, it is," returned the valet. "You, of course, know that all the West
Indies are now connected by means of a cinder-track with the mainland?"
"And is the bicycle-path to the Azores built yet?" demanded Dawson,
dryly.
"No, Mr. Dawson," replied James. "That was given up in 2947, when the
patent balloon tires were invented, by means of which wheelmen can
scorch wherever they choose to through space, irrespective of roads."
Dawson gasped. "For Heaven's sake, James," he cried, "I need air! Bring
up the bodies, and let me get aboard one of 'em and take a sleigh-ride
in Central Park. I can't stand this much longer."
The valet laughed heartily.
"Sleigh-rides have gone out in the Central Park, sir. When Mr. Bunkerton
started his earth-heating-and-cooling plant snow was practically
abolished hereabouts, Mr. Dawson," said he. "It's never cold enough for
snow--always about seventy degrees."
"Ah! The earth is heated from a central station, eh?" asked Dawson.
"Heated and cooled, sir. What with the hot and cold air running through
flues from Vesuvius and the north pole into a central reservoir, an
absolute mean temperature that never varies from one year's end to
another has been obtained. If you wish to take a sleigh-ride you'll have
to go to Mars, sir, and just at present the ships running both ways are
crowded. They always are during the holiday season. I doubt if you could
secure passage for a week."
"Bring up the bodies!" roared Dawson. "I can't express myself in this
disembodied state. Mean temperature everywhere; income provided by
government; no taxes; no poor; gold dumped into the cellar; houses built
of silver; sleigh-riding at Mars. _Bring up the bodies!_ Do you hear?
The mere idea is wrecking my mind. Give me something physical, and give
it to me quick."
[Illustration: "THREE VILLANOUS-LOOKING BODIES, AND A FOURTH, WHICH
DAWSON RECOGNIZED AS HIS OWN"]
Dawson's emotion was so overpowering that the valet was really
frightened, and he fled below, whence he shortly reappeared, pushing
before him a small wheeling vehicle in which sat three villanous-looking
bodies, and a fourth, which Dawson, with a gasp of relief, recognized
as his own.
"I thought you said I had five of these things?" he demanded, inspecting
the bodies.
"So you have, sir. The one you wear for evening, sir, is being pressed.
You fell asleep in it the other night, sir, and got it all wrinkled."
"That golf fellow's a gay-looking prig!" laughed Dawson. "Let me try him
on."
The valet stood the body up, and, opening a small door at the top of the
skull, ingeniously concealed by the hair, invited Dawson to enter.
Without even knowing how it came about, Dawson soon found himself in
full possession. Then he walked over to the glass and peered in at
himself.
"Humph!" he said. "Not much to look at, am I? Bring me a driver."
James obeyed, and Dawson tried the swing.
"Why, the darned thing's left-handed!" he said, after some awkward work.
"I don't like that."
"You picked it out for yourself, sir," replied the valet. "You said a
left-handed player always rattled the other man, and, besides, it was
the only one you ever had that could keep its eye on the ball."
"Let me out! Let me out!" screamed Dawson. "I don't like it, and I won't
have it. I'm suffocating. Open my head and let me out."
The valet unfastened the little door, and Dawson emerged. "What's that
tough-looking one for?" he asked, after a pause, during which his brain
throbbed with the excitement of his novel experience.
"Prize-fights," said James.
"And the strange-looking thing that appears to have been designed for a
fancy-dress ball?"
"Nobody knows what you intended that for, Mr. Dawson. You had it sent up
yourself from the bodydasher's last week, sir."
"Well, take it away," roared Dawson. "This may be 3568, but I haven't
lost my self-respect entirely. Give it to--ah--give it to the children
to play with."
"Really, Mr. Dawson," said the valet, anxiously, "wouldn't I better ring
up the President and have him send a doctor here from the Department of
Physic? You seem all astray this morning. There aren't any children any
more, sir."
"Wha--what? No _children_?" cried Dawson.
"They were abolished three centuries ago, sir," explained the valet.
"Then how the deuce is the world populated?" demanded Dawson.
"It was sufficiently populated at the time the law abolishing children
was passed, sir."
"But people die, don't they?"
"Never," replied the valet. "When Dr. Perkinbloom discovered how to
separate man's mental from his physical side, by means of this little
door in the cranium, all the perishable portions of man were done away
with, which is how it is, sir, that, for convenience' sake, after the
world was as full of consciousness as it could be comfortably, it was
decided not to have any more of it."
"But these bodies, James--these bodies?"
"Oh, they are manufactured--"
"But how?"
"That, sir, is the secret of the inventor," replied the valet, "a secret
which he is permitted by our government to retain, although the
factories are maintained under the supervision of the Tailor-General."
Dawson was silent. He was absolutely overpowered by the revelation.
"James," he said, after a pause of nearly five minutes, "let me--let me
back into my old self just for a moment, please. I--I feel faint, and
sort of uncomfortable. I feel lost, don't you know. I can grasp some of
your ideas, but--Christmas without children! It does not seem possible."
The valet respectfully raised up the original Dawson, opened the little
door in the top of its head, and Dawson slipped in.
"Now lock that door," said Dawson, quickly, once he was safe inside. The
valet obeyed nervously.
"Give me the key," said Dawson. "Quick!"
"Yes, sir," said James, handing it over, eying his master anxiously
meanwhile.
Dawson looked at it. It was a fragile bit of gold, but gold did not
appeal to him at the moment, and before the valet could interfere to
stop him he had hurled it far out of the window into the busy street
below, where it was lost in the maze of traffic.
"There," said Dawson; "I guess you'll have a hard time getting me out of
this again. You needn't try. And meanwhile, James, you can kick those
other bodies out into the street and dump the gold into the river; after
which you may present my compliments to your darned old government, and
tell it that it can go where the woodbine twineth. A government that
abolishes children can go hang, so far as I am concerned."
James sprang towards Dawson as if he had been stung. His face grew white
with wrath.
"Sir," he hissed, passionately, "the words that you have spoken are
treason, and merit punishment."
"What's that?" cried Dawson, wrathfully.
"Treason is what I said," retorted the valet, aroused. "If I thought you
were in your right mind and knew what you were saying, I should conduct
you forthwith to the police-station and inform against you to the
Secretary of Justice."
"Get out of here, you--you--you impertinent ass!" cried Dawson. "Leave
the room! I--I--I discharge you! You forget your position!"
"It is you who forget your position," returned the valet. "Discharge me!
I like that. You might just as well try to discharge the President of
the United States as me."
Here the valet gave a scornful laugh, and leered maddeningly at Dawson.
The latter gazed at him coldly.
"You are my servant?" he demanded.
"By government appointment, at your service," replied James, with a
satirical bow. "You have overlooked the fact that the government since
1900 has gradually absorbed all business--every function of labor is now
governmental--and a man who arbitrarily bounces a cook, as the ancients
used to put it, strikes at the administration. Charges may be preferred
against a servant, but he cannot be deprived of his office except upon
the report of a committee to the Department of Intelligence. As the
President is your servant, so am I."
Dawson sat down aghast, and clutched his forehead with his hands.
"But," he cried, jumping to his feet, "that is intolerable. The logic of
the thing makes you, while your party is in power--"
"Your governor," interrupted the valet. "Come," he added, firmly. "You
called me an impertinent ass a moment ago, and my patience is exhausted.
I shall inform against you. If you aren't sent to Patagonia before
night, my name is not James Wilkins."
He laid his hand on Dawson's shoulder roughly. A shock, as of
electricity, went through Dawson's person. His old-time strength
returned to him, and, turning viciously upon the impudent fellow, he
grasped him about his middle with both arms, and, after a struggle that
lasted several minutes, dragged him to the window and hurled him, even
as he had the key, down into the street below.
This done, he fell unconscious to the floor.
* * * * *
A year has passed since the episode, and Dawson has become the happiest
man in the world, for on his return to consciousness, instead of
finding himself in the hands of a revengeful valet, backed by a
socialistic government, the past had been restored to him and the future
relegated to its proper place. It was only the other night that he spoke
of the value of his experience, however.
"It has made me happier, in spite of my many troubles," he said. "If
there's anything that can make the present endurable it is the thought
of what the future may have in store for us. A guaranteed income, and a
detachable spirit, and no taxes, and a variety of imperishable bodies
are all very nice, but servants with the manners of custom-house
officials, and children abolished! No, thank you. Curious dream,
though," he added, "don't you think?"
"No," said I, "not very. It strikes me as a reasonable forecast of what
is likely to be if things keep on as they are going. Especially in that
matter of our servants."
"Maybe it wasn't a dream," said Dawson. "Maybe, time having neither
beginning nor ending, the future is, and I stumbled into it."
"Maybe so," said I. "I think, however, you'll have some difficulty in
finding that $15,000 again."
"I don't want to," observed Dawson. "For don't you see I'd find James
Wilkins's dead body beside it, and, in spite of its drawbacks, I prefer
life in New York to the possibility of Patagonia."