THE MAN.
[CHAPTER I.
MYSELF.]
What I have to write is of such great value, the circumstances so peculiar, the record so strange, and the truths so startling, that it is but proper I should explain who and what I am, in order that any person, so disposed, may fully verify for himself the things I am about to relate.
Just at that most quiet hour of all the twenty-four, in the city, on a summer’s morning, when the darkness is stubbornly giving way to daylight, there came a violent ring at Mr. Hobbs’ door-bell, followed up with what seemed to be quite an unnecessary knocking.
Mr. Hobbs was interested in an elevator, and when he heard that ring he was sure the elevator had burned—in fact, he had a presentiment that such would be the case; besides this, Mr. Hobbs always carried a goodly assortment of fears ready to use at any moment.
“There, didn’t I tell you!” he excitedly exclaimed to his wife, as he rushed down the stairs—he hadn’t told his wife anything, just bottled up his fears in his own bosom and let them ferment, but that made no difference—“Didn’t I tell you!” and he hastily unlocked and opened the door. No one there!
He looked up the street and down the street. Nothing but a clothes-basket, covered over with a threadbare shawl, which evidently a long time ago had been a costly one. Mr. Hobbs expected a messenger with bad news and Mr. Hobbs was disappointed, in fact was mad; and he snatched that shawl from the basket, staggered against the door, and a voice, like unto that of a young and lusty bull, went up the stairway where Mrs. Hobbs stood peering over the banisters:
“Maria, for God’s sake come quick! There’s something awful happened! Quick, will you!”