Page:The Thrill Book Volume 1 Issue 1 (1919-03-01).djvu/35

THE THRILL BOOK “How difficult it is for the objective mind to accept a new situation without protest. Do look at it calmly. Suppose I left the house in this eiderdown, perfectly unfitted as I am, unable, indeed, to procure myself a livelihood or clothes. I should immediately be arrested. That's so, isn’t it?”

“I suppose you would.”

“And a number of unpleasant things would be done to me. Do you admit that?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Surely you haven't forgotten that you’d feel them all, too?”

“Good heavens!”

“Well, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“You would. I’m a dreamy creature; my world’s more or less a world of dreams. I should be nearly certain to get under a motor bus. Think what it would be like for you if I were lying in hospital with a broken back; and do, my good self, try to remember that it was your own action which caused this disruption. It’s done, and you'll have to put up with it. You go about your business, my good soul, and adapt yourself to the new circumstances. Then I'll do all I can to help you. At present you stop me. Now, don’t you?”

“Do you mean that this is going on forever?”

“No, not forever. It'll be all right when we die.”

“Then I hope you die first.”

“Oh, that was only figurative. As a matter of fact, you're the mortal part of us.”

“Then perhaps you can tell me when I shall die?”

“No, I mustn't tell you that.”

“You know, then?”

“Oh, yes, I know, nearly enough.”

“Will it be soon ?”

“My dear fellow, if it were another thousand years, that would only be the tiniest drop in eternity.”

“Hum! Well, one thing’s certain; I can’t go to the office to-day. What shall I tell them?”

“Why, the truth.”

“But, man alive, how can I?”

“My good fool, you'll have to. Don’t you see that? When you go back, half your original size, don’t you think they'll ask you questions? You can only tell them the truth.”

“But they won't believe it. They'll think I’m lying.”

“I know. As soon as they think that, they'll recognize you. They'll listen to what you have to say, and they'll come to the conclusion that it’s quite like you, and about the best thing you've ever done, and they'll make up their mind that you simply don’t mean to tell them whatever it is that’s happened. They'll find you know the work, and I’m afraid they'll find, too, that without me with you you'll do their cheating for them without any scruples at all.”

“You don’t know what you're talking about,” said Panton, growing less and less hungry as the other ate.

“Now go round to your tailor and order a couple of suits. Our measurements are the same.”

Panton did not know what to do. He was extremely reluctant to accept the situation, because, from first to last, he had never believed in it, though he had such good evidence that it had arisen. Finally, of course, he did accept it, and the most compelling factor was that he felt all this other creature’s sensations. That, as any one can see made it quite impossible for him to throw him out. He must have suffered a great deal during this time.

For instance, he had no privacy at all; he had pretty plain indications that even his thoughts were not secret. Looked at reasonably, this should not have worried him, for, if the stranger’s explanation of his advent was correct, they never, of course, had been.

He went out from time to time, leaving the other half of him at home, and it did not even get his meals for him. It seemed to lie about and philosophize.

Panton dreaded going to work, and wrote to say that he was ill. He got what money he wanted by letter from his bank, and he shambled to a tailor whom he did not know to replace with ready-made ones the garments that no longer fitted him, He had to buy new collars, too, but he made his old shirts serve.

It must have been a singular life he led, if his account be true; and there is evidence that it was true. For example, there were his desperate visits to the doctor in the darkness of night, to see if he could do anything for him. But no doctor can restore a man’s size; there is Scripture for that.

No amount of medical thought could add cubits to the length of Mr. Panton, so the situation really resolved itself into this—that he was shut up, tête-à-tête, with his own conscience, to wait until his wife should return, to choose between them, and fearfully afraid that the choice would not be favorable to him,

IV.

THE stranger—it is preferable to call him that-became more and more irritating, more and more critical, more and more assertive in his manner, and less and less inclined to do anything for himself. He would lie and think for hours, too absorbed to notice that he was hungry, which meant that Panton had to eat for both of them, and never feel satisfied.

As the date of his wife’s return grew nearer, he became more and more desperate, more and more urgent that the other should go.

“Something’s got to be done,” he said. “I don't care what it is, but something’s got to be done. My wife will be back in three days now.”

“Our wife.”

“My wife.”

“Our wife.”

“Well, anyway, she'll be back in three days, and she’s not to find you here. Haven’t you any pity?”

“You shouldn't have fallen downstairs. What pleasure do you find in that ghastly habit?”

“What ghastly habit?”

“Smoking.”

“That’s why my cigarettes seem to have gone off, is it? Is there nothing human you like?”

“No, not very much.”

“You're a curse. But come back to what we were talking about. I won't have you here when my wife comes back.”

“Our wife. I’m longing to see her.”

Panton seized his hat, and went into the hall. The other followed him.

“Put on your overcoat,” he said. “I don’t want another of those ghastly things you call a cold in the head through your stupidity, While you're gone I'll