Judge — December 17, 1921 — page 5: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

A Christmas Dream By Artuur H. Fotweii T was all so hazy and horrible that even after realizing the truth, Mr. Clammish felt dizzy and bewild- ered. Of course, it would not have been nearly so bad if Mrs. Clammish hadn’t dropped that magazine just where her husband could see it. But, as she afterward said, how was she to know? She didn’t know what he had been dreaming. Mr. Clammish came home a trifle earlier than usual and threw himself on the bed for a little doze before dinner. He wasn’t sleepy; just nerv- ously tired. He had been working hard (for a business man) and later in the evening he must again go out, to keep a business engagement. He wanted to be fresh, at his best, and as he flung himself on the bed he felt far from it. He relaxed; “let the bed bear his full weight,” as a doctor once had told him when he sought a remedy for insomnia. Purposely, he kept the room in dark- ness. He was sensible of the fact that Mrs. Clammish passed in and out once or twice, but he did not speak. Nor did she. For a while he dwelt in the shadowland between consciousness and slumber—then he became painfully aware that he was asleep and couldn’t wake up. Just couldn’t wake up. He tried to tell the old man at the foot of the bed—an old fellow who looked like Father Time—that he had to open his eyes, simply must rouse himself, because he had an engagement at eight that evening. And the old man at the foot of the bed just leered and laughed at him, and told him that he couldn't wake up; that he just had to lie there and sleep and sleep for weeks; maybe months; and that there was no sense kicking, because he had slept whole days already, whether he knew it or not. And Clammish gave a yell —and awoke. And sat up. The room was dark save for a low- burning reading lamp on a small table near the bed. The leering old man was nowhere to be seen, but the far shadows ‘of the room might easily be concealing him. Clammish shivered and did not dare to look. Indeed, something else took ail his attention; took it and froze it. It was a new magazine, front cover up. There were holly and mistletoe on it; and a girl in snowy fur. It—it was a—was a— a Christmas number! Christmas! Then it was true. had slept, slept for weeks. heavens, for seven weeks! He Good It was early in November when he had flung himself on the bed. And now—now— Perhaps it was well into the new year. Where was everybody? Where was his wife? His nurse? Where was— “Doris! Dor-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-is!" he called from the uncanny semi-darkness. “What is it, George?” came the un- ruffled voice of Mrs. Clammish. “How—how long have I asleep?” he inquired, trembling. “About ten minutes, I think,” replied his wife, appearing in the doorway. “Don’t you feel well, dear? You look rather upset.” “What day is it?” asked Mr. Clam- mish, ignoring the inquiry. “Day? Why, Tuesday, the eleventh of November. What an absurd ques- tion. What ails you?” Mr. Clammish regarded her suspi- ciously. You never can tell. She might be breaking it to him gently, fearing a return of his delirium. “Huh!” he said. “How about this? This wasn’t here when I went to sleep.” “That?” echoed Mrs. Clammish “Oh, that came to-day, in the after noon mail. I dropped it down there not five minutes ago. Isn't it ridicu. lous how far in advance of Christmas they issue these Christmas numbers!” Mr. Clammish looked at her in deep silence for fully twenty seconds. “There’s something mighty queer about it, ’s all I can say,” he remarked, and he walked unsteadily to the bath- room to douse his face in cold water. been comicbooks.com