“Certainly.”
“Arnold, I don’t want you to get into that thing,” Esther protested.
“Of course, if our friend is afraid that I am going to screw him up for a century—” began Lazaroff.
“I am not at all afraid,” I returned, a little nettled. “How do I get in?”
“I’ll have to help you,” Lazaroff answered. “It was not made for a big man in clothes. Button your coat. Now—put your arms down by your sides.” He rolled a cylinder upon the floor, and I put my feet inside rather reluctantly and squeezed down to the bottom. Lazaroff looked at me and burst into loud laughter.
“Not much room to turn round, is there?” he said, raising the cylinder with an effort and standing it on its base again.
“Come out, Arnold,” pleaded Esther; and I saw that her face was white with fear.
But I was quite helpless, and above me I saw Lazaroff, smiling at my predicament.
“Now if I were going to be so unkind as to send you into the next century,” he said, “to be the only animist, with a defective skull, in a world of vile materialism—”
“Please, Herman, for my sake!” Esther implored.