The Argosy, Christmas 1912 — page 177: what you’re looking at

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

CASTAWAYS OF and promptly fell in with his plans. The helicopters were holding the mu- nicipal machine a few feet above the landing-stage of the strange roof-top. Lumley climbed over the side, lowered himself to arms’ length, and dropped. Iie landed lightly, easily, and then watched while the air-ship resumed the chase. ‘“T hope nothing goes wrong,’ he said to himself, turning to the edge of the platform and descending a short flight of steps to the roof. “If the time-ball falls into the hands of our enemies, there’s no telling where our troubles will end.” His worries on the score of Dr. Kel- pie and the time-ball had caused him to forget for the time being that he had been deprived of the morning meal, of which he stood very much in need. Now that he had been eliminated from the chase and its attendant excitement, his mind returned wistfully to the sub- ject of his lost breakfast. A sort of pergola, hard by the land- ing- stage and offering a shelter of flowering vines, invited him. He en- tered its cooling shadow and sat down on a cushioned bench. By a supreme effort of the will he sought to banish visions of ham and eggs, fried pota- toes, toast, and coffee. As a means to the end, he steered his thoughts in other channels. It was clear that the members of the Rescue Society were going to have a hard time prying the dictators loose from their powers and prerogatives and carrying them back into the past. Yet it must be done in some way. They had no moral right to tyrannize over the folks of the twenty-first century. People of different ages are differ- ently constituted. How would the peo- ple of the year 1901 have felt if some usurpers had come on from the year 1800, banished the telegraph for the post-rider and retired incandescent bulbs in favor of tallow-dips? No, no! Surely a man has no right to any other era than that in which he 1s born. The castaways, perhaps not mali- THE YEAR 2000. 163 ciously, were perpetrating a great wrong; and Lumley was grieved to note that a sordid spirit had entered into their operations, and that they were manipulating the weather, the culinary operations, and no doubt everything else, for their own finan- cial benefit. This was— Lumley’s reflections were cut short. What was that he heard? A groan? He started to his feet and listened in- tently. Yes, there was no mistake. Here was something that demanded investi- gation. Midway of the pergola’s length was the built-up hood that sheltered the roof-door. Lumley observed that the door was ajar, and he was not long in determining that the gruesome sounds he had heard were wafted through the opening. Cautiously he advanced to the door, pushed it wide, and stepped through. Descending the broad stairway a short distance, he looked over the balustrade, and an odd scene revealed itself to him. The room into which he had partly descended was the triclinium, or dining-room, of the household. It was a very rich apartment, with walls fres- coed by the hands of some master art- ist, and with chairs and couches up- holstered in the costliest fabrics. The grating, through which the food vapors were wont to ascend, was of yellow gold wrought out in an intricate and graceful design. On one side of this grating stood a table—a breakfast-table, as it were— brought from some peasant’s hut and put down in those luxurious surround- ings. It was covered with a paper cloth, and the dishes were of tin, evi- dently designed for other uses and pressed into service by sudden ne- cessity. There was a bowl-shaped dish half full of a dark liquid. At half a dozen places around the board were plates heaped with food—a sort of food Lumley could not remember ever hav- ing seen before. Six chairs were oO cComicbooks CO