"James," he said, after a pause of nearly five minutes, "let me—let me back into my old self just for a moment, please. I—I feel faint, and sort of uncomfortable. I feel lost, don't you know. I can grasp some of your ideas, but—Christmas without children! It does not seem possible."
The valet respectfully raised up the original Dawson, opened the little door in the top of its head, and Dawson slipped in.
"Now lock that door," said Dawson, quickly, once he was safe inside. The valet obeyed nervously.
"Give me the key," said Dawson. "Quick!"
"Yes, sir," said James, handing it over, eying his master anxiously meanwhile.
Dawson looked at it. It was a fragile bit of gold, but gold did not appeal to him at the moment, and before the valet could interfere to stop him he had hurled it far out of the window into the busy street below, where it was lost in the maze of traffic.
"There," said Dawson; "I guess you'll have a hard time getting me out of this again. You needn't try. And meanwhile, James, you can kick those other bodies out into the street and dump the gold into the river; after which you may present my compliments to your darned old government, and tell it that it can go where the woodbine twineth. A government that abolishes children can go hang, so far as I am concerned."
James sprang towards Dawson as if he had been stung. His face grew white with wrath.
"Sir," he hissed, passionately, "the words that you have spoken are treason, and merit punishment."
"What's that?" cried Dawson, wrathfully.