“There ain’t any such orb.”
“_Orb_?” says I. “Why, what are you talking about, young man? It ain’t
an orb; it’s a country; it’s a continent. Columbus discovered it; I
reckon likely you’ve heard of _him_, anyway. America—why, sir, America—”
“Silence!” says the head clerk. “Once for all, where—are—you—_from_?”
“Well,” says I, “I don’t know anything more to say—unless I lump things,
and just say I’m from the world.”
“Ah,” says he, brightening up, “now that’s something like! _What_
world?”
Peters, he had _me_, that time. I looked at him, puzzled, he looked at
me, worried. Then he burst out—
“Come, come, what world?”
Says I, “Why, _the_ world, of course.”
“_The_ world!” he says. “H’m! there’s billions of them! . . . Next!”
That meant for me to stand aside. I done so, and a sky-blue man with
seven heads and only one leg hopped into my place. I took a walk. It
just occurred to me, then, that all the myriads I had seen swarming to
that gate, up to this time, were just like that creature. I tried to run
across somebody I was acquainted with, but they were out of acquaintances
of mine just then. So I thought the thing all over and finally sidled
back there pretty meek and feeling rather stumped, as you may say.
“Well?” said the head clerk.
“Well, sir,” I says, pretty humble, “I don’t seem to make out which world
it is I’m from. But you may know it from this—it’s the one the Saviour
saved.”