My first impulse was to flee the house, to go out into the night and pace the fieldspossibly to rush out to the golf links and play a few holes in the dark in order to cool my brow, which was rapidly becoming fevered. Fortunately, however, I am not a man of impulse. I never yield to a mere nerve suggestion, and so, instead of going out into the storm and certainly contracting pneumonia, I walked boldly into the library to investigate the causes of the very extraordinary incident. You may rest well assured, however, that I took care to go armed, fortifying myself with a stout stick, with a long, ugly steel blade concealed within ita cowardly weapon, by-the-way, which I permit to rest in my house merely because it forms a part of a collection of weapons acquired through the failure of a comic paper to which I had contributed several articles. The editor, when the crash came, sent me the collection as part payment of what was owed me, which I think was very good of him, because a great many people said that it was my stuff that killed the paper. But to return to the story. Fortifying myself with the sword-cane, I walked boldly into the library, and, touching the electric button, soon had every gas-jet in the room giving forth a brilliant flame; but these, brilliant as they were, disclosed nothing in the chair before the machine.
The latter, apparently oblivious of my presence, went clicking merrily and as rapidly along as though some expert young woman were in charge. Imagine the situation if you can. A type-writing machine of ancient make, its letters clear, but out of accord with the keys, confronted by an empty chair, three hours after midnight, rattling off page after page of something which might or might not be readable, I could not at the moment determine. For two or three minutes I gazed in open-mouthed wonder. I was not frightened, but I did experience a sensation which comes from contact with the uncanny. As I gradually grasped the situation and became used, somewhat, to what was going on, I ventured a remark.
This beats the deuce! I observed.
The machine stopped for an instant. The sheet of paper upon which the impressions of letters were being made flew out from under the cylinder, a pure white sheet was as quickly substituted, and the keys clicked off the line:
What does?
I presumed the line was in response to my assertion, so I replied:
You do. What uncanny freak has taken possession of you to-night that you start in to write on your own hook, having resolutely declined to do any writing for me ever since I rescued you from the dust and dirt and cobwebs of the attic?
You never rescued me from any attic, the machine replied. Youd better go to bed; youve dined too well, I imagine. When did you rescue me from the dust and dirt and the cobwebs of any attic?
What an ungrateful machine you are! I cried. If you have sense enough to go into writing on your own account, you ought to have mind enough to remember the years you spent up-stairs under the roof neglected, and covered with hammocks, awnings, family portraits, and receipted bills.
Really, my dear fellow, the machine tapped back, I must repeat it. Bed is the place for you. Youre not coherent. Im not a machine, and upon my honor, Ive never seen your darned old attic.
Not a machine! I cried. Then what in Heavens name are you?a sofa-cushion?
Dont be sarcastic, my dear fellow, replied the machine. Of course Im not a machine; Im JimJim Boswell.
What? I roared. You? A thing with keys and type and a bell
I havent got any keys or any type or a bell. What on earth are you talking about? replied the machine. What have you been eating?
Whats that? I asked, putting my hand on the keys.
Thats keys, was the answer.
And these, and that? I added, indicating the type and the bell.
Type and bell, replied the machine.
And yet you say you havent got them, I persisted.
No, I havent. The machine has got them, not I, was the response. Im not the machine. Im the man thats using itJimJim Boswell. What good would a bell do me? Im not a cow or a bicycle. Im the editor of the Stygian Gazette, and Ive come here to copy off my notes of what I see and hear, and besides all this I do type-writing for various people in Hades, and as this machine of yours seemed to be of no use to you I thought Id try it. But if you object, Ill go.
As I read these lines upon the paper I stood amazed and delighted.
Go! I cried, as the full value of his patronage of my machine dawned upon me, for I could sell his copy and he would be none the worse off, for, as I understand the copyright laws, they are not designed to benefit authors, but for the protection of type-setters. Why, my dear fellow, it would break my heart if, having found my machine to your taste, you should ever think of using another. Ill lend you my bicycle, too, if youd like itin fact, anything I have is at your command.
Thank you very much, returned Boswell through the medium of the keys, as usual. I shall not need your bicycle, but this machine is of great value to me. It has several very remarkable qualities which I have never found in any other machine. For instance, singular to relate, Mendelssohn and I were fooling about here the other night, and when he saw this machine he thought it was a spinet of some new pattern; so what does he do but sit down and play me one of his songs without words on it, and, by jove! when he got through, there was the theme of the whole thing printed on a sheet of paper before him.
You dont really mean to say I began.
Im telling you precisely what happened, said Boswell. Mendelssohn was tickled to death with it, and he played every song without words that he ever wrote, and every one of em was fitted with words which he said absolutely conveyed the ideas he meant to bring out with the music. Then I tried the machine, and discovered another curious thing about it. Its intensely American. I had a story of Alexander Dumas about his Musketeers that he wanted translated from French into American, which is the language we speak below, in preference to German, French, Volapuk, or English. I thought Id copy off a few lines of the French original, and as true as Im sitting here before your eyes, where you cant see me, the copy I got was a good, though rather free, translation. Think of it! Thats an advanced machine for you!
I looked at the machine wistfully. I wish I could make it work, I said; and I tried as before to tap off my name, and got instead only a confused jumble of letters. It wouldnt even pay me the compliment of transforming my name into that of Shakespeare, as it had previously done.
It was thus that the magic qualities of the machine were made known to me, and out of it the following papers have grown. I have set them down without much editing or alteration, and now submit them to your inspection, hoping that in perusing them you will derive as much satisfaction and delight as I have in being the possessor of so wonderful a machine, manipulated by so interesting a person as JimJim Boswellas he always calls himselfand others, who, as you will note, if perchance you have the patience to read further, have upon occasions honored my machine by using it.
I must add in behalf of my own reputation for honesty that Mr. Boswell has given me all right, title, and interest in these papers in this world as a return for my permission to him to use my machine.
What if they make a hit and bring in barrels of gold in royalties, he said. I cant take it back with me where I live, so keep it yourself.