n your bag?"

It was, and the boy took it with much the same results as overnight. It
tasted sweeter and acted quicker; that was the only difference. The skin
seemed to tighten on his face. His fingers tingled at the ends It was
not at all an unpleasant sensation, especially as the labour in his breast
came to an end as if by magic. The faintly foreign accents of Dr.
Baumgartner sounded unduly distant in his last words from the open door.
It was scarcely shut before the morning's troubles ceased deliciously in
the cosy chair.

Yet they seemed to begin again directly, and this was a horrid crop! Of
course he was back in Hyde Park; but the sky must have rained red paint in
his absence, or else the earth was red-hot and the sky reflected it. No!
the grass was too wet for that. It might have been wet with blood.
Everything was as red as beet-root, as wet and red and one's body
weltering in it like the slain! Reddest of all was the old photographer,
who turned into Mr. Spearman in cap and gown, who turned into various
members of the Upton family, one making more inconsequent remarks than the
other, touching wildly on photography and the flitting soul, and between
them working the mad race up to such a pace and pitch that Pocket woke
with a dreadful start to find Dr. Baumgartner standing over him once more
in the perfectly pallid flesh.

"I've had a beast of a dream!" said Pocket, waking thoroughly. "I'm in a
cold perspiration, and I thought it was cold blood! What time is it?"

"A quarter to six," said the doctor, who had invited the question by
taking out his watch.

"A quarter to twelve, you mean!"

"No--six."

And the boy was shown the dial, but would not believe it until he had
gaped at his own watch, which had stopped at half-past three. Then he
bounded to his feet in a puerile passion, and there lay the little garden,
a lake of sunlight as he remembered it, swallowed up entirely in the
shadow of the house.

"You promised to wake me!" gasped Pocket, almost speechless. "You've
broken your word, sir!"

"Only in your own interest," replied the other calmly.

"I believe you were waiting for me to wake--to catch my soul, or some rot!"
cried the boy, with bitter rudeness; but he looked in vain for the
stereoscopic or any other sort of camera, and Dr. Baumgartner only
shrugged his shoulders as he opened an evening paper.

"I apologise for saying that," the boy resumed, with a dignity that
sounded nea