Chapter II––The Presage of the Wings
And I, the observer––worse, the accessory––know, in advance, when the metamorphosis will transpire.
When, on my desk-pad calendar the month recorded is October, and the day begins with a twenty, there comes the first premonition of winter; not the reality, but a premonition; when, at noon the sun is burning hot, and, in the morning, frost glistens on the pavements; when the leaves are falling steadily in the parks, and not a bird save the ubiquitous sparrow is seen, I begin to suspect.
But when at last, of an afternoon, the wind switches with a great flurry from south to dead north, and on the flag-pole atop of the government building there goes up this signal:
; and when later, just before retiring, I surreptitiously slip out of doors, and, listening breathlessly, hear after a moment despite the clatter of the wind, high up in the darkness 285 overhead that muffled honk! honk! honk! of the Canada-goose winging on its southern journey in advance of the coming storm––then I know.
So well do I know, that I do not retire––not just yet. Instead, on a pretext, any pretext, I knock out the ashes from my old pipe, fill it afresh, and wait. I wait patiently, because, inevitable as Fate, inevitable as that call from out the dark void of the sky, I know there will come a trill of the telephone on the desk at my elbow; my own Polly––whose name happens to be Mary––is watching as I take down the receiver to reply. 286
Chapter III––The Other Man
It is useless to dissimulate longer, then. I am discovered, and I know I am discovered. “Hello, Sandford,” I greet without preface.
“Sandford!” (I am repeating in whispers what he says for my Polly’s benefit.) “Sandford! How the deuce did you know?”