rilliant 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. "You'd
better go to bed; you've 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. You're not coherent. I'm not a machine, and
upon my honor, I've never seen your darned old attic."

"Not a machine!" I cried. "Then what in Heaven's name are you?--a
sofa-cushion?"

"Don't be sarcastic, my dear fellow," replied the machine. "Of course
I'm not a machine; I'm Jim--Jim Boswell."

"What?" I roared. "You? A thing with keys and type and a bell--"

"I haven't got any keys or any type or a bell. What on earth are you
talking about?" replied the machine. "What