I am not attempting to theorize concerning this. I am merely stating a fact.
This system of recurrence applies not only to situations of this kind, but to many others. The appearance of a certain person in my life has always been heralded by a number of hunchbacks who came forward, passed—sometimes touching my elbow—and frequently looking at me in a solemn manner, as though some subconscious force, of which they were the tool, were saying to me, “See, here is the sign.”
For a period of over fifteen years in my life, at the approach of every marked change—usually before I have passed from an old set of surroundings to a new—I have met a certain smug, kindly little Jew, always the same Jew, who has greeted me most warmly, held my hand affectionately for a few moments, and wished me well. I have never known him any more intimately than that. Our friendship began at a sanatorium, at a time when I was quite ill. Thereafter my life changed and I was much better. Since then, as I say, always at the critical moment, he has never failed. I have met him in New York, Chicago, the South, in trains, on shipboard. It is always the same. Only the other day, after an absence of three years, I saw him again. I am not theorizing; I am stating facts. I have a feeling, at times, as I say, that life is nothing but a repetition of very old circumstances, and that we are practically immortal, only not very conscious of it.
Going south from North Manchester, we had another blowout in the right rear tire and in connection with this there was a discussion which may relate itself to what I have just been saying or it may not. The reader may recall that between Stroudsburg and Wilkes-Barré, in Pennsylvania, we had had two blowouts in this same right rear wheel, or tire, and in connection with the last of these two blowouts just east of Wilkes-Barré, Franklin had told me that hitherto—ever since he had had the car, in fact—all the trouble had been in the same right rear wheel and that, being a good mystic, he had finally to realize for himself that there was nothing the matter with the perfect idea of this car as it existed before it was built or, in other words, its psychic unity, and hence that there couldn’t be anything wrong with this right rear wheel. You see? After that, once this had been clearly realized by him, there had been no more trouble of any kind in connection with this particular quarter or wheel until this particular trip began.
“Now see here, Speed,” I heard him say on this particular occasion. “Here’s a psychic fact I want you to get. We’ll have to get that right hand tire off our minds. This car is an embodiment of a perfect idea, an idea that existed clear and sound before this car was ever built. There is nothing wrong with that idea, or that tire. It can’t be injured. It is in existence outside this car and they are building other cars according to it right now. This car is as perfect as that idea. It’s a whole—a unit. It’s intact. Nothing can happen to it. It can’t be injured. Do you get me? Now you’re going to think that and we’re not going to have any trouble. We’re going to enjoy this trip.”
Speed looked at Franklin, and I felt as though something had definitely been “put over,” as we say—just what I am not quite able to explain myself. Anyhow we had no more tire trouble of any kind until just as we were nearing Wabash or about half way between the two towns. Then came the significant whistle and we climbed down.
“There you have it!” exclaimed Franklin enigmatically. “You shouldn’t have knocked on wood, Speed.”
“What was that?” I inquired, interested.
“Well, you remember where we had the last blowout, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I said, “east of Wilkes-Barré.”