As the two young fellows, carrying their suitcases, emerged from the subway at Times Square into the midsummer glare and racket of Broadway and Forty-second Street, Brown suddenly halted, pressed his hand to his forehead, gazed earnestly up at the sky as though trying to recollect how to fly, then abruptly gripped Smith's left arm just above the elbow and squeezed it, causing the latter gentleman exquisite discomfort.
"Here! Stop it!" protested Smith, wriggling with annoyance.
Brown only gazed at him and then at the sky.
"Stop it!" repeated Smith, astonished. "Why do you pinch me and then look at the sky? Is--is a monoplane attempting to alight on me? What is the matter with you, anyway?"
"That peculiar consciousness," said Brown, dreamily, "is creeping over me. Don't move--don't speak--don't interrupt me, Smith."
"Let go of me!" retorted Smith.
"Hush! Wait! It's certainly creeping over me."
"What's creeping over you?"
"You know what I mean. I am experiencing that strange feeling that all-- er--all this--has happened before."
"All what?--confound it!"