The Eye of Wilbur Mook

Transcriber's Notes
There was a cloud of smoke, a horrid visage, and Mook's legs grew weak beneath him.
by H. B. HICKEY
Wilbur! his mother called. Better get up or you'll be late for work!
Slowly but surely Wilbur Mook came out of his beautiful dream. And what a dream it was! He had Peter Bellows down and was busily punching his head. What a dream!
Then his mother's voice pulled him away from Pete Bellows and dragged him back to reality. Wilbur opened one eye and looked at the clock on his bedside table. Its hand said eight o'clock.
Wilbur flung off the covers and slid his bare feet into lamb's wool bedroom slippers. If he didn't hurry, Wilbur thought, he'd be late to work. At the thought of facing Pete Bellows' angry stare Wilbur shuddered. It was all right to dream, but real life was quite another thing.
Quickly, he ran water into the washbowl and washed his hands and face. No time to shower or shave. Running his hand over his chin Wilbur found he didn't need a shave anyway. By skipping that operation he could get to the office early.
When the world's most cowardly man met the world's bravest—history was changed
He took a moment to survey himself in the long mirror on the back of the bathroom door. Every day in every way I am getting better and better, Wilbur muttered. Then he heard his mother's footsteps outside in the hall and he hurried to put on his robe. Just in time he got his head out of the way as the door swung inward.
You look nice this morning, Mrs. Mook said. Now hurry before your breakfast gets cold.
He did look pretty good, Wilbur admitted to himself as he looked again into the mirror. At twenty-five his skin was firm and healthy looking, his body straight and neither too thin nor too fat. His reddish-brown hair was free of dandruff, his blue eyes clear.