With a wrench he brought his mind back to the song:
“The last round-up, the la—ast round-up.”
He felt all sort of stuffed up. Even in the daytime this place was spooky enough. What if this little man could read people’s minds? How terrible to have someone about, who could tell everything you thought! You’d just have to stop thinking, and that was impossible. Again he was back at the song:
“I’m riding to the last round-up—”
“Now you may stop thinking,” the little man broke in. “Only—” he smiled again. “You will never stop, not for one moment, except when you are asleep.
“Now,” he said briskly, “we take this out.” He held up a round metal box a little larger than a silver dollar. “We fit it in here. We turn this handle, so—very slowly, for two minutes.”
Taking out his watch, he proceeded to time himself while the tiny handle went round and round noiselessly.
“This little Chinaman is a fake,” the boy thought to himself once more. “He must be. How could anyone make a picture of your thoughts?”
And yet—he found himself trying to think what that would mean. If you were able to photograph the thoughts of your mother on the night before Christmas, or your teacher when you thought she had caught you in some prank, or the person who sits next to you in a street car, or the new girl next door, or a person suspected of some terrible crime. Johnny’s head fairly whirled with the possibilities of the thing. In the end he thought, “Huh! It can’t be done!”
Beginning to feel that he had dwelt upon this long enough, he switched his thoughts to the Chinese Chamber of Commerce. Johnny could visit that fascinating place any time he pleased because he was a friend of the great Wung Lu, who spent much time there.