I stood waiting for him to explain. But as I did so I seemed to become aware that a voice, not Mr. Narrowpath’s but a voice close at my ear, was repeating “Toronto—Toronto—Toronto—”
I sat up with a start—still in my berth in the Pullman car—with the voice of the porter calling through the curtains “Toronto! Toronto!”
So! It had only been a dream. I pulled up the blind and looked out of the window and there was the good old city, with the bright sun sparkling on its church spires and on the bay spread out at its feet. It looked quite unchanged: just the same pleasant old place, as cheerful, as self-conceited, as kindly, as hospitable, as quarrelsome, as wholesome, as moral and as loyal and as disagreeable as it always was.
“Porter,” I said, “is it true that there is prohibition here now?”
The porter shook his head.
“I ain’t heard of it,” he said.
XVIII. Merry Christmas
“My Dear Young Friend,” said Father Time, as he laid his hand gently upon my shoulder, “you are entirely wrong.”
Then I looked up over my shoulder from the table at which I was sitting and I saw him.