~ CHAPTER II. ~

In a curious position—Discover I have grown a beard—Am nearly drowned—Mr. Adams, C.I.G.C.—The year 2000—The certificate—Get my hair cut—The watch.

When I awoke next morning I felt a curious sensation, viz., “pins and needles” all over my body, like those in your foot when it goes to sleep. I felt very stiff, too—in fact, I could not move, and lay wondering what the matter was.

The room I was in also seemed strange to me. The first thing I noticed was the roof, which was for all the world like a large white saucer reversed. The room, I may mention, was in semi-darkness, as it was only lighted by a small square window above the door.

Gradually the pricking sensation began to get less, until I could move my limbs a little. And now, behold —here I was “in a box” and no mistake, for I found myself to be lying in what I took to be a sort of coffin. I began to wonder if this was not a dream, and tried to recall what I had been doing the night before. I remembered Brown coming in and talking over our match, and I distinctly remembered going to bed. “Well,” I thought, “I suppose it’s some joke of Brown’s; but whether it’s time to laugh or not, I don’t know.”

My next discovery—rather a startling one for a man that had gone to bed a few hours before clean­shaven—was that I had a beard. And such a beard! Why, it would have stuffed a dining-room suite with half-a-dozen sofas in it. My hair, too, as you shall presently learn, looked as if it had not been cut for a century. And has the reader ever reflected what that description would imply, if taken literally? Perhaps he has not had the chance to picture it to himself, whereas I—but never mind. All I need say is that I lay for several minutes lost in astonishment at the growth of my beard.

But I soon began to think I had better get up; and the next difficulty was, how to get out of my box. All my limbs were very stiff, and, moreover, the lid of the box—or coffin, whichever it was—came up as far as my armpits, leaving my face alone exposed. All I could do was to try and work my way out by this open part, which I found no easy task. At last, however, I was out. Sitting down on the top of my former prison, I gave my legs a stretch. I did feel cramped and sore.

Still wondering as to my whereabouts, I presently thought I would have a look round, and see what kind of place I was in. I got up and moved towards the door, which, when I had come within a foot or so, suddenly and without any warning shot back into the wall. Thus I found myself at once in a large, handsomely-furnished room. “Well!” I thought to myself, “whoever has planned this joke has done the thing well, that’s one comfort!”

Looking round, I saw a huge glass globe half full of water, which bulged out from one wall of the room, with a raised daïs of white marble round the outside. It was quite shut in, except for an opening at the side presumably for getting out and entering at. This suggested the matutinal tub. « In I got accordingly, and on my grasping a steel rod which stretched across it, the opening closed, and the whole structure began to fly round about and backwards and forwards, till I was almost drowned. After going for about a minute—it seemed hours to me—the churning process stopped, and the window, if I may call it so, opened. You may be sure I was not long in getting out, bruised, battered, and half-drowned. On recovering myself I proceeded to look about for some more seemly clothing than the night-shirt in which—the place being altogether strange to me, and my own habiliments invisible—I had been wandering about until I entered the bath. A wardrobe which stood in one corner would not be persuaded to open; but, to add to my astonishment, I presently found what I wanted on a chair. I picked up first a shirt, which seemed to be made of a sort of silk, very finely woven. This I put on, and next donned a pair of black knee-breeches—which seemed to be made of the same material as the shirt, but of stronger texture—and black stockings, also of the same stuff. Thus attired, I approached a toilet table on which was a large looking-glass, & c. At first sight of my head of hair and beard I went into roars of laughter. For, I am sure, ten minutes, I simply stood and held my sides and shouted.

Hearing an exclamation, I turned round and saw standing in an open doorway—not the one I had myself come in by—the figure of a man, clad like myself as far as the knee-breeches went, and with a loose sort of jacket made of the same stuff, buttoned up to the throat. He was very white, and looked all the more odd because he had not a particle of hair on his face, or his head either, for the matter of that, barring a sort of tonsure of sandy-coloured hair round the skull from one ear to the other.

This apparition stood leaning against the side of the door, and gazing at me for some seconds. He then darted across the room and disappeared—only to reappear, however, in a moment, from the anteroom where I had been lying. The door closed so quickly after him that to my unaccustomed eyes—which have got used to the sight since—he seemed for the moment to have vanished.

He now came slowly forward, and, sitting down on a chair, gazed at me. Never a word did he speak, so I at last broke silence myself.

“Well,” I said, “this is a capital joke as far as it has gone, but I would like it explained. Where am I, and what’s it all about? I’ve barked my shins getting out of my bunk” (as, indeed, I had, and no wonder)—“I've been nearly drowned in that patent bath of yours, and, pray, how do you account for this?” I added, tugging my beard and looking fiercely at him.

His lips moved in reply; but what he said sounded more like a soliloquy than an answer.

“At last, at last! Living, moving, speaking! Just as they said he might some day! And yet—a man that has been lying seemingly dead for the last ten years to my knowledge, and goodness only knows for how long before!”

“He must be a maniac!” I thought to myself; “and this will be their toggery, and that bath affair something for cooling their brains.”

“Ten years!” I said, aloud; “is that all? Say a century while you’re about it! But would you be so good as to tell me what or whose house this is?”

“Certainly. It belongs to your humble servant.” And here he handed me a card, on which was written, “W. Adams, C.I.G.C.”

“Well, Mr. W. Adams, C.I.G.C., I would like to understand to what happy circumstance I am indebted for becoming your uninvited guest.”

“Sir,” he said, tremulously, “you found yourself, did you not, lying in a box in that room?” He pointed to the anteroom.

“Yes,” I admitted.

“Well, in that room you have, to my certain knowledge, been lying for the last ten years,” he went on. “You have been examined periodically by members of the medical faculty, who have always found a certain amount of heat in your body, and your heart beating, though faintly. When I bought this house ten years ago you were lying there, and it was part of the arrangement that I was not to disturb you, and that I must have you examined at the usual intervals.”

I sat down and looked at him. It was now my turn to be dumbfoundered. When I had to some extent collected my scattered wits, I said:

“Will you kindly inform me what year this is?” “It is” (and he referred to a pocket almanac as he spoke) “the twenty-fifth of March, 2000.”

“What!” I cried, “the year 2000? This is rather too steep! What are you talking about?”

For all answer he jumped up, crying, “The package, the package!” and rushed into the ante­room. Presently he came back, carrying a long-shaped envelope.

“This,” he said, “has been lying under your head.”

On the cover was written: “NOT TO BE OPENED UNTIL THE UNHAPPY ALEXANDER J. GlBSON EITHER REVIVES OR EXPIRES.”

It was my mother’s handwriting; but ah! how faded the ink!

“We are now at liberty to open it,” said my companion. And hastily, with trembling fingers, he did so. Inside was a paper bearing the words:

“This is to certify that Alexander John Gibson fell into a trance on the night of Thursday, the 24th day of March, 1892. We have done all we could to revive him, but without success.

A-------B-------

C-------D-------

Signed this 30th day of March, 1892.”

When he had finished reading he looked up.

“A hundred and eight years,” he said, solemnly. “How unheard-of!” «

“Thursday, the twenty-fourth of March!” I said. “I tell you that was yesterday. I distinctly remember all that happened. This must be a dream, or you are deceiving me—you mean to—”

But he interrupted me.

“Your own senses tell you it is no dream,” he said, almost sternly. “Nor shall you long want for proof that it is, indeed, the twenty-first century. Come with me.”

“In the first place,” I said, “I would like this removed,” indicating my beard. “Can you take me to a barber’s?”

“A barber?” he replied. “Ah! to be sure—you lived a century ago. We don’t have such things now. This will serve your purpose.” Going forward to the table he lifted a small bottle, and, unscrewing the stopper, drew out a sort of flat brush. This he drew gently down one side of my face, and thereupon motioned me to look in the glass. The sight that met my gaze was even more ludicrous than at first. On the right side of my face not a vestige of a hair was to be seen, while the other was, as I had seen it before, covered with a huge bushy beard.

I asked him what magic this was.

“Only a preparation,” he replied, with a smile, “for removing and keeping down the growth of hair. We only require to use it once a week or once a fort­night. I’ve heard my grandfather talk of the old fashion of shaving, and it always struck me as being very clumsy and a great bother.”

“Well,” I said, “since you've begun you had better finish, as I don’t want to go about like this.” He laughed, and, applying the brush again, in a second had my face as clean as a baby’s.

“You’d better brush your hair now,” he said, handing me a pair of brushes.

My hair, I think I said before, was very long, and looked like a huge stable mop. With a touch from these brushes, however, it began to assume more civilised proportions; and when I finished brushing I looked as if I had just had my hair cut.

“Something new, too?” I said, laying down the brushes.

“No, those aren’t a very recent invention. They always keep the hair the same length, and you can alter the length to suit yourself by this simple means.” Here he showed me a small dial on the backs of the brushes with figures on it.

“But where does all the hair go to?” I inquired.

“Oh, it is destroyed; the same liquid that is in that bottle is in the brushes, and it destroys the hair whenever it comes in contact with it. But put on this jacket,” he went on. “It is fortunate we are much of the same build; for the present my wardrobe is at your service.”

I put on my jacket, and, looking about me, said:

“I don’t see any boots or shoes; would you be good enough—”

“Ah! how stupid of me!” he replied, going to the wardrobe which I had been unable to open. On his touching it twice, the door slid back, and he produced a pair of shoes, the uppers of which seemed to be made of the same stuff as the rest of the clothing, while the soles were of a hard sort of gutta-percha. I put them on, and found they fitted perfectly.

“Now,” he said, “if you are ready we will go down and have some food, as I expect you’ll be hungry. You deserve to be, at any rate.” And I agreed with him there. “It’s just about my regular meal-time anyway,” he added, looking at a signet ring on his left hand “6.34. The days are stretching out.”

“May I look at that?” I said, for I saw that he had told the hour by the ring.

“Certainly,” he replied; “had you not even watches in your days?”

“Oh, yes, we had, but this is very neat.” It was an ordinary sized signet ring with the figures 6.34 on it. As I looked it changed to 6.35, and those were the only figures to be seen. How they managed to get all the works into such small compass I don’t know. I returned it to him, and he slipped it on to his finger.
 

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