There goes that blamed machine again (begins to write.) “Professor George Paul Syphers, 621 West 115th Street, New York City. Your uncle, Edward Fillmore, died at eleven to-night. By the terms of his will you are the sole heir to the bulk of his fortune, three hundred thousand dollars. Come at once. A. J. Larywind, Counsellor,” (Aside.) I wish someone would leave me three thousand cents. (To a waiting messenger.) Here, Patsy. Take this up to 115th Street.
PATSY LAFERTY
(Cock-eyed, overgrown, contentious.) Sure, it’s just de night to keep busy. It’s goin’ to rain, an’ it’s me late watch. Oh, well, dere’s nuttin’ like bein’ poor an’ honest. (He seizes a black cotton umbrella almost as large as himself and goes out.)
SYPHERS
(Crawling into his bed.) The curious thing is: why should any dominant force outside this seeming life wish to create it—the smallness, the pettiness, the suffering? I must write a book about that. Here I am—(he suddenly bethinks him of opening a window and gets out. Looking out). It’s going to rain, I do believe. (He returns and stretches himself to rest.) There, it’s thundering already.
PATSY LAFERTY
(Trudging solemnly up Broadway.) It’s funny, dese mokes wot git messages at one in de mornin’. I’ll lay a even bet I don’t git nuttin’, neider. If you’d come wit a million dollars after twelve o’clock dere’s guys wot’d git sore.
SYPHERS
(Dozing, but still continuing his speculations hazily.) I must try to find the psychic impulse which originates and directs the cell. That is the great thing. We’re all shadows, I say, shadows—adumbrations—impalpable nothings—rumors—dreams. (He turns on his side.) If our ills become too great we might be able to wake up or drive them away by thinking of this. It may be that that’s what we do when we die—wake up. But that’s Christian Science, isn’t it? Bah! (He snores slightly.)