I asked him whether he could get forward into the future. He simply said: “What do you mean?”
“Why,” said I, “according to St. Thomas, time is a dimension, just like space.”
When I said the words “St. Thomas” he made a curious sign, like a man saluting. “Yes,” he said, gravely and reverently, “but you know well the future is forbidden to men.” He then made a digression to ask if St. Thomas was read in 1909. I told him to what extent, and by whom. He got intensely interested. He looked right up into my face, and began making gestures with his hands.
“Now that really is interesting,” he said.
I asked him “Why?”
“Well, you see,” he said in an off-hand way, “there’s the usual historic quarrel. On the face of it one would say he wasn’t read at all, looking up the old Records, and so on. Then some Specialist gets hold of all the mentions of him in the early Twentieth Century, and writes a book to show that even the politicians had heard of him. Then there is a discussion, and nothing comes of it. That’s where the fun of Travelling Back comes in. You find out.”
I asked him if he had ever gone to the other centuries. He said, “No, but Pop did.” I learned later that “Pop” was his father.
“You see,” he added respectfully, “Pop’s only just dead, and, of course, I couldn’t afford it on my allowance. Pop,” he went on, rather proudly, “got himself back into the Thirteenth Century during a walk in Kent with a friend, and found himself in the middle of a horrible great river. He was saved just before the time was up.”
“How do you mean ‘the time was up’?” said I.
“Why,” he answered me, “you don’t suppose Pop could afford more than one hour, do you? Why, the Pope couldn’t afford more than six hours, even after they voted him a subsidy from Africa, and Pop was rich enough, Lord knows! Richer’n I am, coz of the gurls.... I told you I was Baron Hogg,” he went on, without affectation.