Amazing Stories, Vol. 2, No. 2 — page 49: what you’re looking at

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

THE TIME in a half-jocular spirit. The Editor wanted that explained to him, and the Psychologist volunteered a wooden account of the “ingenious paradox and trick” we had witnessed that day week. He was in the midst of his exposition when the door from the corridor opened slowly and without noise. I was facing the door, and saw it first. “Hallo!” I said. “At last!” And the door opened wider, and the Time Trav- eler stood before us. I gave a cry of surprise. “Good Heavens, man! what’s the matter?” cried the Medical Man, who saw him next. And the whole tableful turned toward the door. He was in an amazing plight. His coat was dusty and dirty, and smeared with green down the sleeves; his hair disordered, and as it seemed to me grayer —either with dust and dirt or because its color had actually faded. His face was ghastly pale: his chin had a brown cut on it—a cut half-healed: his ex- pression was haggard and drawn, as by intense suf- fering. For a moment he hesitated in the doorway, as if he had been dazzled by the light. Then he came into the room. He walked with just such a limp as I have seen in footsore tramps. We stared at him in silence, expecting him to speak. He said not a word, but came painfully to the table, and made a motion toward the wine. The Editor filled a glass of champagne and pushed it toward him. He drained it, and it seemed to do him good; for he looked round the table, and the ghost of his old smile flickered across his face. “What on earth have you been up to, man?” said the Doctor. The Time Traveler did not seem to hear. “Don’t let me disturb you,” he said, with a certain falter- ing articulation. “I’m all right.” He stopped, held out his glass for more, and took it off at a draught. “That’s good,” he said. His eyes grew brighter, and a faint color came into his cheeks. His glance flickered over our faces with a certain dull approval, and then went round the warm and comfortable room. Then he spoke again, still, as it were, feeling his way among his words. “I’m going to wash and dress, and then I’ll come down and explain things. Save me some of that mutton. I’m starving for a bit of meat.” He looked across at the Editor, who was a rare visitor, and hoped he was all right. The Editor began a question. “Tell you presently,” said the Time Traveler, “T’m—funny! Be all right in a minute.” H® put down his glass, and walked toward the staircase door. Again I remarked his lame- ness and the soft padding sound of his footfall, and standing up in my place I saw his feet as he went out. He had nothing on them but a pair of tattered, blood-stained socks. Then the door closed upon him. I had half a mind to follow, till I remembered how he detested any fuss about himself. For a minute, perhaps, my mind was wool gathering. Then, “Re- markable Behavior of an Eminent Scientist,” I heard the Editor say, thinking (after his wont) in headlines. And this brought my attention back to the bright dinner table. “What’s the game?” said the Journalist. “Has Ss MACHINE he been doing the Amateur Cadger?* follow.” I met the eye of the Psychologist, and read my own interpretation in his face. I thought of the Time Traveler limping painfully upstairs. I don’t think anyone else had noticed his lameness. The first to recover completely from his surprise was the Medical Man, who rang the bell—the Time Traveler hated to have servants waiting at dinner —for a hot plate. At that the Editor turned to his knife and fork with a grunt, and the Silent Man followed suit. The dinner was resumed. Conver- sation was exclamatory for a little while, with gaps of wonderment; and then the Editor got fervent in his curiosity. | “Does our friend eke out his modest income with a crossing, or has he his Nebuchadnezzer phases?” he inquired. : “I feel assured it’s this business of the Time Machine,” I said, and took up the Psychologist’s ac- count of our previous meeting. The new guests were frankly incredulous. Editor raised objections. “What was this time traveling? A man couldn’t cover himself with dust by rolling in a paradox, could he?” And then, as the idea came home to him: he re- sorted to caricature. Hadn’t they any clothes- brushes in the Future? The Journalist, too, would not believe at any price, and joined the Editor in the easy work of heaping ridicule on the whole thing. They were both the new kind of Journalist —very joyous, irreverent young men. “Our Special Correspondent in the Day After To-Morrow re- ports,” the Journalist was saying—or rather shout- ing—when the Time Traveler came back. He wag dressed in ordinary evening clothes, and nothing save his haggard look remained of the change that had startled me. “I say,” said the Editor hilariously, “these chaps here say you have been traveling into the middle of next week! Tell us all about little Rosebery, will you? What will you take for the lot?” The Time Traveler came to the place reserved for him without a word. He smiled quietly, in his old way. “Where’s my mutton?” he said. “What a treat it is to stick a fork into meat again!” : “Story !”? cried the Editor. “Story be d. d!” said the Time Traveler. “J want something to eat. I won’t say a word until I get some peptone into my arteries. Thanks! And the salt.” “One word,” said I. eling ?” “Yes,” said the Time Traveler, with his mouth full, nodding his head. a: “T’d give a shilling a line for a verbatim note,” said the Editor. The Time Traveler pushed his glass toward the Silent Man and rang it with his finger nail; at which the Silent Man, who had been staring at his face, started convulsively, and poured him wine. The rest of the dinner was uncomfort- able. For my own part, sudden questions kept on rising to my lips, and I dare say it was the same 153 I don’t The “Have you been time trav- * A Tramp. GOomic ooo) SH (e(o)