INTO THE FOURTH DIMENSION

A SHORT STORY

BY FRANK BLIGHTON

I.

He was Guard John Delahunty on the register of prison employees.

To the convicts behind the grim, desolate walls of Danfoirth he was only “Dirty Jack." One look at him showed why.

His face set itself in yet more cruel lines as his eyes wandered reflectively along the blue-black steel of the shining riﬂe barrel, and his itching fingers toyed with the murderous magazine on its underside.

“Iʼd like to try this new gun on something beside a pine plank,ˮ mused Dirty Jack.

‟Huh!ˮ grunted Paddy Moran, turning his eyes away from the barren landscape, where early March was struggling as strongly to retain its bleak grip on the mountains as the stern arm of the law hedged one thousand men in penal servitude. Guards on reserve duty had to do something, so they gossiped.

Dirty Jack had been doing reserve for only two days. His real place was in the tin-shop. But the convicts hated him as cordially as he hated them. That was why he had been transferred. Even in a prison, too much of a brutal manʼs aura may be secretly recognized by his superiors.

“Howʼd you like to try it on Swami Ram?ˮ blurted Moran.

Delahunty shuddered. His shiver was the signal for a general clacking of tongues. ‟If Jack ever shot at that guinea,ˮ vociferated Charlie Hovey, ‟the bullet would go through him, circle the east hall. and jump back down the barrel of his gun agin.ˮ

“It sure would!ˮ affirmed Billy Edwards. ‟Thereʼs the oldest gink inside these four walls. He hainʼt human. He never makes a noise. He never speaks a word. He don’t eat nothinʼ except rice and oatmeal. He hain’t even a convict—heʼs only a chocolate-colored ghost—with a ten-year bit.ˮ

“Believe me, that two-legged plug of tobacro is just nacherally going to fade away like a bottle of invisible ink some day,ˮ chorused Hank Dobie. “Why, when I was over in the east hall the ﬁrst night he come in, I counted him more’n ﬁfty times.ˮ

“How longʼs he been here?ˮ asked Dirty Jack.

‟Oh, ʼbout a year,ˮ returned Hank.

‟Year, hell!ˮ exploded Paddy Moran. “Heʼs been here ﬁve weeks.ˮ

‟Well,ˮ stoutly retorted Hank, ‟it seems like a year to me. I'm glad he hainʼt in my charge only once in a long while. He gives me the creeps. I donʼt mind doinʼ prison duty, but Iʼd hate to herd a lot oʼ pussy-footed Hindoos like him. Iʼve seen too much of ʼem. Why once out in Vancouver I seen a whole steamship load of them white-turbans come ashore. All of the old guys had long black whiskers. The young fellers was smooth-faced. One joblots throws a rope up in the air, and damn me if it didn’t stick there, hanging on nothinʼ at all. Then

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a little rat runs up it, like it was a tree ʼstead of a rope—and he never come down again—take it from me, he never did show again in Vancouver.ˮ

“Aw, what ye feedinʼ us, Hank?ˮ sourly shot Dirty Jack.

“Heʼs right!ˮ chimed in Paddy Moran. ‟Them fellers just vanish whenever they feel like it. When I was hard-rock mininʼ out in Butte, a troupe of ʼem came there. One of their tricks was ‘The Vanishing Lady.ʼ They took a volumptious little thing, tucked her in under a basket on a table, covered it with a cloth, jabbed it with a sword a dozen times, pulled out the thing all over blood—and she was yellin’ ﬁt to kill all the time inside. Then he pulls off the cover, lifts the basket—and itʼs empty. And twenty foot behind him. on the back of the stage, stands the girl—kissinʼ her hand and laughin’ at us!ˮ

Dirty Jackʼs sneer spread to a guffaw.

‟Yuh musta been drinkinʼ that squirrel whisky they sell out there!ˮ he jeered.

“What if l was?ˮ flashed Moran. “I was one of the committee they invited on the stage, and I humped up right under that table.ˮ

“It’s part of their religion,ˮ imperturhably remarked Charlie Hovey. ‟They all believe in foreordination, predestination and transmogration,ˮ he sagely concluded. ‟But what you going to do about it? This Swami Ram didnʼt come here because he liked the scenery or the company. He robbed a ticket wagon to a circus, they say, and so they handed him the ten-spot. If he was going to do any fadin.’ why didn't he fade before he landed out there in the tin-shop?ˮ

“Now you’re talking sense!ˮ Dirty Jackʼs murder-face contorted into a near-smile. ‟Fade? Do you sʼpose he can fade fastcr than a bullet kin travel? I’m jest achinʼ for him to try to fade on my trick relievin’ a keeper in the shop or in the cell-house.ˮ

“Ever try shootinʼ at smoke?ˮ queried Edwards. ‟How you goin’ to keep smoke locked up? If Swami Ram wants to melt away into smoke, how you goinʼ to stop him with a—ˮ

Clang!

The jangling of the alarm-gong in the reserve room drowned the unﬁnished sentence. Thrice its dissonant summons throbbed.

As the last died away, Principal Keeper Burston himself whirled the key in the lock of the door leading into the prison and yelled:

“This way! Man over the wall!ˮ

They tore out the rear gate on a wild run—the pale-faced hall-keeper waving back the excited convicts who were cleaning the corridors, pushing a pistol into their faces as he swung wide the barred entrance.

They streamed through out into the cold sunshine. A hundred yards away a striped ﬁgure was running madly for the woods.

Dirty Jack spat out an oath as he whipped his rifle to his shoulder, and his keen eyes glinted.

It hung there for a second, the yellow cork that kept the inside of the barrel from rusting jutting ludicrously from the muzzle.

Then it shivered as the bellowing roar of the riﬂe woke the echoes in the hills.

The striped man stumbled, then sprawled, right at the edge of the sheltering tree-trunks of the thick woods.

Delahunty jerked another cartridge into place and loped up the hill. Close behind was Burston.

The striped ﬁgure writhed, moaned pitifully, then shuddered to an ominous stillness.

The red blotch between his shoulder-blades widened, spread, and trickled down in the last spring snow, crimsoning its white purity.

II.

“Well, you got your wish, Jack!ˮ remarked Charlie Hovey next afternoon. ‟But it didn’t happen to be

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Swami Ram! Now, we was just getting around to what you all would do if you was shooting at smoke.ˮ

Dirty Jack patted his long gun lovinigly. His savage lineaments tried to shift into a smirk.

‟Smoke be hanged!ˮ he growled. ‟You joshers make me sick. Stick your Swami back there on the hill, and Iʼll give him the same dose I give Crossman. If you hadnʼt been jabberinʼ about that brown-bodied swab, some of us would ʼa’ seen Crossman stick that ladder up agʼinʼ the guard-room window. But if Iʼd been out on the wall, heʼd never get to the roof carryinʼ a fake pass—or a piece of paper that looked like a pass.

“Them mutts out there saw him all the time. Told the warden they thought he was going up to ﬁx the slate on the roof. He walked the whole length of the yard—right past the patrol wtth nothinʼ but a blank piece of paper. And then they stand there like a lot of toy soldiers guardinʼ a Noahʼs ark, and let him put over a stall like that—pickinʼ away at the roof with that piece of white paper, until he turned and slid over the ridge-pole of the east hall, where a bullet wouldnʼt get him. Good thing the wall-guardʼs got a push-button to this room—or we all would be out of a job to-day.ˮ

“There goes Father McCann and the funeral!ˮ

Paddy Moran was watching through the grated window. The others crowded their heads around his.

A lumber wagon, bearing a rough pine-box rumbled through the yard and paused at the gate until Principal Keeper Burston waved his hand.

Then, carrying the four tool-laden men in stripes and its two guards, it faded into the road, and creaked wearily down to the little knoll where convicts without friends wait, as others wait, for their summons to stand forth and be judged.

‟What about this transmogration, Bill.ˮ asked Hank Dobie.

“Well, all I know is that I heard them fellows can project themselves anywhere they want to," came back the better-educated man. “One way is to squat in the sun and look at the light in a puddle of water. Then they just send for their astral body and vanish.ˮ

“Vanish?ˮ Dirty Jackʼs slow sneer held an accent of inﬁnite contempt. “I’d like to have this Swami Ram try that stunt when Iʼm on duty. Vanish—why whereʼn the devil would he vanish to?ˮ

Edwards regarded him pityingly. He knew that Delahunty was full of conceit over the killing of Crossman with a snap-shot; he knew as did all the other officials of the prison how the record that followed the village coronerʼs inquest now held the simple words opposite Crossmanʼs prison number.

‟Shot and killed while trying to escape by Guard John Delahunty.ˮ

But Edwards honestly thought there were other things than prison walls, rifle-bullets. and striped men.

He believed in the world of invisibility, and besides he didn’t want to let the arrogant keeper have the best of the argument.

“I really hate to show you up, Jack,ˮ he slowly replied. “You sure got Crossman, as we all know. But Crossman isn’t Swami Ram. And if Swami Ram ever takes it into his brown nut to make a getaway. you won't have anything to shoot at—believe me!ˮ

“That’s all right.ˮ retorted the man addressed, with a tolerance bordering on loftiness. “But it looks to me, Bill, as I was a showin’ up your—not you, me. I asked yuh where he’d vanish to. And yuh ain’t told me—yet.ˮ

Edwards continued to fill his pipe, lighted it and puffed contemplatively. The pause gave weight to his words when he spoke.

“He might vanish into the fourth dimension," said he judicially. “Ever

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hear of that, Jack—the fourth dimension?” he went on, dreamily.

“Now you got me!ˮ acknowledged the other, with a frankness which was unusual for him. “I’m a little out of my depth—but if I’m ignorant and you’re so damn wise, Bill, you ain’t going to sit there and see me drown, are you?ˮ

Edwards smiled, his slow smile. His lips drew away from the stem of the pipe which he held in his teeth.

The other guards were hanging on his words. Bill was educated—Bill generally knew what he was talking about.

“l can’t tell you what it is, Jack,ˮ said he with the utmost friendliness. The other’s demoniacal effort at a responsive smile disturbed him not at all. “But I can tell you what it ain’t. Everything has three dimensions—that is ’most everything. Take the stones out in that wall. They have length, breadth, and thickness. here’s your three dimensions. But some people think there’s another—the fourth dimension. I don’t know where it is—but there’s folks that does. And there’s folks that know right around Danforth prison.

“The Germans understand it—they write books about it. Old Burston—he’s Dutch—I think he knows about it. Leastways he’s got a book about it—all full of jaw-breaker words and funny pictures made of lines with letters and numbers sprinkled through ’em like currants in a cake. I never could make head or tail of it—but I know there is such a thing, for I tried to read Burston’s book one day.

“Now these here Hindoos know everything there is to know. I figger that they put that girl into the fourth dimension from that basket Paddy told us about yesterday. Or the kid that climbed the ropę that Hank told about.ˮ

“I’m from Kansas—which is west of Missouri!ˮ gibed Delahunty.

“That was in Vancouver—which is northwest of Kansas,ˮ kept on the placid Edwards. “Now Hank says that ropę just stuck up in the air. All right. Other folks beside Hank has seen that trick done. If you are so almighty wise, Jack, and so sure there ain’t no such thing as the fourth dimension, can you tell me this—ˮ

He paused, removed his pipe. leaned over and slowly tapped the doubting officer on the knee.

“Let’s admit for a minute that there is such a thing as the fourth dimension—some place where a feller can sit around and not be seen. On the ground. in the air, or anywhere. Suppose there was a fellow sittin’ in that fourth dimension when that old Hindoo threw that rope up into the air, and he just grabbed it, and held it. That would have kept it up, wouldn’t it?ˮ

ˮSure it would—if there is such a place," agreed Jack.

“And suppose the same feller that was a holding the ropę up there, or even another feller alongside of him, pulled the kid into the fourth dimension—wouldn’t that explain how he got away?ˮ

“It sure would,ˮ affirmed the guard; “that is—Billy—provided there really is such a thing as the fourth dimension. I never heard of it until today!ˮ

“There you go again!ˮ chided Edwards. “You never seen the city of London. Yet there is such a place. Folks write about it, make pictures of it—and you can read about it until you can go there. What you don’t know, Jack, and what I don’t know, would make a book big enough to crowd these four walls. Just use a little sense.

“There must be such a place as this fourth dimension, because folks write about it and make pictures about it. I don’t understand it—neither do you; but what does that prove? A three-year-old kid don’t understand lots of things that it afterward learns through experience. Books and experience—there you have it. Now, if

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you really want to beat this Swami Ram to it, why don’t you look up this here fourth dimension—before he jumps into it like that kid did Hank was a tellin’ about?ˮ

Dirty Jack thought for a moment in the general silence which ensued. The talk about the fourth dimension was getting to the nerves of the guards. Hank suddenly slapped his leg.

‟By crinus!ˮ he exploded. ‟Now I think of it, Billy, that kid out there in Vancouver looked exactly like this here Swami Ram! What do you think of that? Sʼpose it was him?ˮ

‟Aw! Whoʼs going to throw the rope for him?ˮ snarled Dirty Jack. ‟And if he ever starts to climb it when Iʼm around, Iʼll get him before he gits to the fourth dimension as fast as I got Crossman before he got to the woods. You guys make me sick. Why, if there was anything like this here fourth dimension—whatʼtl keep every con in this stir from jumpinʼ into it, whenever they pleased?ˮ

‟Just their ornary ignorance,ˮ calmly replied the rough-and-ready teacher of metaphysics. ‟Same thing that keeps you from understandinʼ—or me.ˮ

‟Well, much obliged, Bill,ˮ drawled Delahunty. ‟I sew how Iʼm going to put one over on this dissolving gent. Iʼm going to put it up to him—straight, believe me—the very next time I get night duty in the east hall. Heʼs in the tin-shop company. Iʼll keep my eye on him. Iʼll make him come across with this fourth dimension stuff—if I have to kick in his slats. And then—ˮ

‟What then?ˮ queried Edwards.

‟Iʼll get a fourth-dimension gun—and foller him myself till I spread-eagle him out before the coroner!ˮ savagely snarled Dirty Jack.

III.

Swami Ram had ﬁnished his task of making coffee-pots for the day. But still he labored.

Patiently he went over each one of them, rubbing them arduously, touching up a dull spot here and carefully eliminating a speck there—until they stood in symmetrical rows, glowing more like silver receptacles than dull tin ones.

Keeper Lang nodded approvingly, but the other convicts only glowered. The silent, patient, all-absorbed Swami made things bad for them.

He not only finished his task with perfect workmanship in less time than any other man in the shop, but he also displayed the painstaking care in the appearance of his coffee-pots which characterizes the Oriental craftsman. A dozen Swami Rams gleamed back from their highly polished surfaces, and each Swami grinned approval at the original.

The night ‟knock-offˮ whistle blared its signal. Serpentine lines of convicts wound out from the various shops. Each man in the lines carefully stepped in perfect time with his fellows, one hand resting on the shoulder of the man ahead, the other tucked beneath the forward convictʼs armpit.

They crossed the yard, traversed the east hall, until they reached the long table on which rested the piles of bread.

Usually one night was exactly the same as another to Swami Ram. His clumsily shod right foot seemed to clump with the others, when the thudding column reached the stone-flagged cell-house. That right foot kept perfect rhythm—but it made no sound. His left foot dragged as did the others in the ‟swishˮ along the ﬂoor.

But of all the thousand men who marched in and marched out daily with feet clashing in unison Swami Ram's were the only feet in Danforth prison which rose and fell without a sound!

When the line broke up on the gallery, the other convicts clumped heavily to their cells. Not so the Swami. He glided like a wraith of the mist. His footfalls were as cushioned as the pads of the tiger in his native jungles on the other side of the world.

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Dirty Jack Delahunty, waiting that night for the completion of the count at the hall-keeper's desk, noted him with unapproving eyes.

So that was the convict who might climb a rope and jump “into the fourth dimension?ˮ Well, let him try it!

The guard gritted his teeth as he thought of his repression that afternoon.

‟Going to dissolve into smoke, is he?ˮ he ﬁercely questioned to himself as he sat down to draw on his “sneaks,ˮ replacing the heavy shoes he wore in the daytime. ‟Well, Iʼve got three counts to make before the midnight relief in this hall. I’ll just take a little stroll up on that gallery, and watch him light his ﬁre. There is no smoke without ﬁre. And I guess Iʼm match enough for anything heʼll light while Iʼm on the job,ˮ he grimly concluded.

Inside his dark cell, Swami Ram munched the bread and drank the water which all true followers of Brahma find sufficient for their strength. He never touched the prison tea. His fresh, ruddy-brown face attested that.

Other men swallowed the copper-colored mixture eagerly, their starved stomachs craving any stimulant within their reach. But the Swami had kept rigidly the rules of Hatha Yoga, while he conned in his mind the wisdom of the Upanishads—and waited through the silent, slow-footed hours for the great God Brahma to answer his prayers for deliverance from the oppressor.

Around him loomed the strong, cunning web of steel and stone. Other men had tried to break through it—always with the one result—failure!

The last one, ingenious, daring resourceful, had actually scaled the heights in broad daylight, without assaulting a guard, without filing a bar, without loosening a stone. Yet he, too, had failed.

Dirty Jack’s key rang roughly against the bars of his cell. Swami Ram pressed his slender body hard against the iron door.

“Here!ˮ he answered, clearly.

The guard chuckled as he rang for the next man. He chuckled again as he walked off the gallery.

“Well, he ainʼt dissolved yet,ˮ he thought, as he passed to the nest tier.

When he had ﬁnished, he sat brooding thoughtfully in the end of the hall, wondering in what way he could excuse the visit he had planned to the Swamiʼs cell and put the tiny heathen on the gridiron of his interrogations.

Hank Dobie was sharing the ﬁrst half of the night trick with him, but Hank held fast to his own bailiwick on the opposite side of the cell-block.

Delahunty plotted patiently, rejecting plan after plan and substituting another for each rejected one. There were rigid rules that governed his intercourse with prisoners. One forbade conversation unless required by duty.

The brooding silence had settled down over the prison. It hung like a pall as the hours deepened. Delahunty, for all his cruel skepticism, wished that silence was not the rule to-night. He had never felt it before— in fact, he had rigidly enforced it.

Delahunty had no sentiment for men doing time. A prison was only a place of punishment. Men should obey the rules. If they didn't he dragged them from their cells, rang for the principal keeper, and saw to it that the dungeon swallowed the offender.

Wo to the luckless convict, who tried to fry food over his lamp, who smoked after hours, or who failed to have his cell in order when the second whistle blew on the morning trick, if he was working the other leg of the twelve-hour shift.

That was why Delahunty had won his sobriquet of Dirty Jack, and that was why he was not now a keeper, in charge of a company, drawing seventy-five dollars a month instead of sixty.

Warden Dyer knew his faults. He

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had even explained to Delahunty that he would be killed, if left alone in a shop. There were a dozen men in the prison who had sworn to have his life.

And men in a strong prison like Danforth rarely plan that last. desperate step except on extremest provocation. Nevertheless, Dirty Jack still lived up to his nickname whenever he could safely.

The unconscious object of his thought was not praying to-night. Instead Swami Ram was analyzing the principle which had carried Crossman over the heretofore impregnable deadline of Danforth prison until he had fallen dying in the very shadow of safety. He turned the thing over and over in his mind, carefully picturing each step of the daring convictʼs progress.

He watched him leave the carpenter-shop, which was below the tin-shop in the same building. He saw in his mind the dead man shoulder the ladder, stride confidently up the yard, and stop at the administration building—leaning it against the window of the reserve guard-room.

He visualized the sure climb of the man upward, his sublime nerve as he crept indifferently from place to place on the roof under the very eyes of the wall-guard, with their deadly rifles swinging carelessly.

Then his heart thrilled with ﬁerce exultation as he slid down the sloping slates with Crossman—safe from the riﬂe-ﬁre of the now aroused guardians of the wall—safe because the very walls of the east hall itself, so cunningly and strongly contrived to hold men in, now shut the pursuing bullets out.

“It was the paper which Crossman carried,ˮ thought Swami Rama, reverting with inﬁnite swiftness to the ﬁrst scenes of the escape. He dild not trouble himself to think of the bullet. The thing that charmed his Oriental mind was the paper which had gotten the man out of the prison—not the fatality which had followed.

“The paper of itself meant nothing, but to those guards it signiﬁed a pass. Men without keepers, even trusties, are not permitted to go from one part of the prison to another without a pass signed by the principal keeper. They all supposed that this piece of paper Crossman carried was a pass—the fact that it was not a pass meant nothing—it was the thing they thought that counted.

He concentrated steadily on that idea. Over and over he turned it, mentally masticating it, swallowing it, assimilating the principle which it contained.

“That piece of blank paper held their riﬂe-ﬁre. And Crossman knew what effect it would have on their minds before he started. They thought they were looking at something when they were really looking at something else. Thatʼs the important thing. No one else could ever use another piece of paper in the same way again—but could they use that principle again in a different way?ˮ

The prison walls were fading away, the stone was dissolving, and now Swami Ram stood in the sacred temple by the Ganges, listening to the words of the Brahmin priest. He intoned after the teacher as he had followed when a lad:

Trouble and ignorance are gone!
        The Light
Hath come unto me, by thy favor,
        Brahma.
Now I am fixed! My doubt is ﬂed
        away!
According to thy word, so will
        I do.

The oily waters of the sacred river seemed to dissolve under the ﬁerce rays of the rising sun. The glaring light hurt his eyes. But the brutal accents of Dirty Jack Delahunty, ﬂooding his face with an electric bullsye, carried the ragged harshness of the Occident. as Swami Ram ﬂashed half-round the world and again stood trembling before the door of the cell.

‟What was that smoke coming out

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of here?ˮ truculently demanded the guard.

“Smoke?ˮ repeated the bewildered Hindoo.

‟Yes, smoke! Wasn’t you trying to dissolve your astral body in smoke a minute ago—wasnʼt you tryinʼ to jump into the fourth dimension?ˮ

“I was asleep, sar,ˮ timorously replied the diminutive prisoner.

‟Asleep?ˮ chortled the guard. ‟Now see here, little gum-drop, I got your number. Iʼm wise, see?ˮ He leered into the cell at the prisoner. “Iʼm hep to your scheme to climb a rope and jump into the fourth dimension—as you did out in Vancouver.ˮ

‟In Vancouver?ˮ The Swami seemed startled.

‟Y-a-s-s — in V-a-n-c-o-u-v-e-r!ˮ drawled Dirty Jack. He wasnʼt so much—this fragile, brown-skinned boy. ‟Hank Dobie saw you,ˮ he went on. “Hank was there when you was there. Now he’s here and you’re here. He saw you shin up that rope and climb into the fourth dimension. Add sometimes you fade out in smoke. I guess I stopped that fadeaway stunt of yours, didnʼt I? Now, if I see any more smoke coming out of this cell to-night, Iʼm going to call the P. K. and have you lugged in the dark hole.ˮ

‟The Sahib is mistaken.ˮ

“What’s that?ˮ roared Delahunty, jabbing his big key toward the lock on the door.

‟I said,” replied Swami Ram so clearly that his words ﬂoated down to the corner of the cell-block, where Hank Dobie was listening, ‟that the Sahib is mistaken. No smoke came from my cell to-night nor at other times. There is nothing here to make smoke. My lamp has not been lighted. I take no tobacco. I eat no food except the bread, the meal, and the rice.ˮ

The guard swayed in his anger. His hand shook so he could not turn the key. He intended to drag out the Hindoo, kick him down the tier, and then prefer charges enough to call for a ten-day stay in the dungeon.

But Hank Dobie, scenting trouble, bulked between the infuriated man and the cell-door.

‟Wait-a minute. Jack,ˮ he soothed. “You don't want Dyer to be ballinʼ you out again to-morrow. The smoke didn’t come from this cell—thereʼs your man,ˮ he jerked his thumb toward the next occupied niche.

‟I seen him chuck the butt through the door, acrost the gallery and it hit the ﬂoor while you was chinnin’ with the Swami,ˮ he went on. ‟Take it easy, Jack, if you want to get wise to Hindoo trick stuff. Them fellers are like cats—you gotta stroke ʼem the long way of the fur!ˮ

Delahuntyʼs snarl died. He had blundered. He turned back to Swami Ramʼs cell.

‟All right, kid. It was the guy next door. Hard to see from the end of the hall just which cell it was. But do you really dissolve in smoke?ˮ

‟Sar?ˮ

‟Is this astral body jinx-stuff the square? How do you fellers transmogrify, kid? Now Hank, here, has seen you do it. He says you were in Vancouver once when he was there, and that you climbed a rope while an old man inside the fourth dimension held the high end, and that you never came down again. How about it?ˮ

‟It were wise that the Sahib should ask of a Yogi--I am but a Swami, and teach only the Bhagavad-Gita.ˮ

‟But you must know where you went when you crawled into that fourth dimension, don’t you? Or is it all con talk?ˮ

‟Of such things, Sahib, I may not speak, being only a novitiate on the road of the seven paths. But I know that they are—for Brahma is the one all-pervading, and you may read in the Karma-Yog that sons of Pritha are not to be bound by toil, no height remains to scale, no gift remains to gain.”

“Whatʼs the dope—how do you crush into this now-you-see-it and now-you-donʼt country?ˮ

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Delahunty was a little confused, but he fancied that it would all clear up presently, if he could keep the Swami ‟on the run.ˮ

‟The path lies by the three gates of Narak,ˮ replied the Swami. “You may know them by the names when you pass by. Shun them, and seek instead that gate which comes to Swarga.ˮ

‟Narak? Narak?ˮ repeated “Dirty Jack.ˮ ‟I donʼt remember any town by that name! Where is it?ˮ

He could not wait for an answer to the question. Hank was giving him a hiss and a ‟high signˮ at the end of the cell-block on the lower ﬂoor.

The warden and the principal keeper were inside the prison wall. Reluctantly the guard resumed his proper place on the hall-ﬂoor. Both officers remained until after midnight. Delahunty was scanning the state map when his relief reported, but the nearest he had gotten to Narak was Norwich, New York. Swami Ram was slumbering.

‟Narak,ˮ muttered Dirty Jack, as he climbed into bed, ‟and with three gates. I wonder if that little copper-colored cuss is stringinʼ me about this here entrance to the fourth dimension? Aw! Hank said it was around Vancouver, somewhere. Might be in Canada—Narak. Narak—that sounds a little like French-Canuck. But howʼn blazes is a feller in Danforth a goin’ to reach out twenty-ﬁve hundred miles to make a gitaway? Vancouverʼs about that far from here. And if he was anywhere around there, what would he need of any more gitaway? Ainʼt twenty-five hundred miles far enough?ˮ

IV.

KEEPER LANG looked into the empty cell of Swami Ram, amazed!

The prisoners had not yet emerged for breakfast. Lang had unlocked the door himself.

The Swamiʼs bed hung, neatly made, against the wall, as the rules required.

The three-legged table was in the corner, everything was as it should be, except there was no occupant of that cell, where the prisoner should have been!

Keeper Lang took a quick slant into the empty cell on the right and dashed down the two ﬂights of stairs to the hall-keeperˮs office.

“Man of my companyʼs gone!ˮ he whispered.

The hall-keeper pressed the emergency buzzer, and the principal keeper and the warden, followed by three reserve guards with riﬂes, burst into the east hall.

The warden, principal keeper, hall-keeper and Lang hurried to the gallery and down it to the Swamiʼs cell. The warden was the ﬁrst man inside.

A bit of paper lay on the ﬂoor. He picked it up and read

I have implored Brahma for aid and the god has heard my prayer. I have leaped into the fourth dimension.

SWAMI RAM.

‟Whatʼn hell is the fourth dimension?ˮ muttered Warden Dyer, as he handed the paper to Keeper Lang.

‟You cʼn search me!ˮ muttered the man addressed. “Ram was here on the company count last night, all right, all right. That much I'll swear to!ˮ

The hall-keeper nodded.

‟He was here at ten oʼclock.ˮ he affirmed. ‟And I know Dinney McManus counted him in, because the midnight-out register showed it.ˮ

‟The door was locked this morning,ˮ interpolated Lang. He breathed easier. His job was safe for the present, at least, because the manʼs escape could not be put up to him.

The four men scrutinized the cell closely. There was no mark of tools in the interior, the man alongside it on the left was safe in his cell, the bars were intact—but the Swami was gone.

They searched every nook and corner of the interior. There was nothing inside the cell except the neatly made bed ﬂattened against the wall, the bucket, and the slender three-legged table.

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They could plainly see the whitewashed wall between its legs. It had been empty for weeks. Lang tried the door. It was locked.

‟Who had the last half of the night-trick?ˮ demanded Warden Dyer.

‟Delahunty and Dobie. This is Jackʼs side,ˮ replied the principal keeper.

‟Get ʼem!” blurted the warden. “Run out in single companies only, feed up quick, lock ʼem in and go through this jug from stem to gudgeon.ˮ

He hurried into the office and pressed the button to the boiler-room thrice. The shuffling convicts within the walls pricked up their ears as the three wild blasts resounded again and again at intervals, and without the walls mothers called in their children, as the sirenʼs wail streamed over the hills for miles.

Dirty Jack and Hank shoved back their chairs from the breakfast table and ran to the main gate.

Every other guard in Danforth off duty was headed the same way. They crushed into the administration building and waited.

Burston himself summoned Delahunty to the guard-room. He handed him Swami Ramʼs message without a word. Dirty Jack read it and his murderer's face went a pasty white.

“Who the hell threw the rope for him?ˮ he blurted.

‟Rope? Vot rope?ˮ demanded the deputy warden.

“Why, he does that stunt by climbinʼ a rope or fadin’ away in smoke, donʼt he?ˮ retorted the guard. ‟And he must have used the rope to climb up into the fourth dimension with, because he was in bed at ﬁve oʼclock count this morning—and there wasn’t a bit of smoke coming out of the cell while I was on duty!ˮ

Burston was peering at the other officer with a puzzled expression when Dyer entered.

“How did that man get out of his cell?ˮ he demanded.

“You cʼn search me,ˮ ﬂared Dirty Jack.

He handed the paper back to the warden.

“He says there heʼs jumped into the fourth dimension. Iʼve counted that gink four times instead of every once that the rules call for, night in and night out, expectinʼ that heʼd pull off this same stunt. Ask Dobie if I wasnʼt at his cell one night when I smelled smoke.ˮ

‟Whatʼs the smoke got to do with it?ˮ demanded the warden.

He had caught Burston’s quick shake of the head and signiﬁcant tap of a foreﬁnger against his own cranium as the principal keeper swung it in Dirty Jack’s direction.

“Why, ain’t that the way them there Hindoos beat it into the fourth dimension? Hank seen him pull it off in Vancouver years ago. Told us all about it in the guard-room the day after I nicked Crossman up at the woods. Everybodyʼs been onto this brown-belly jumpinʼ jack—at least, theyʼve been all talkinʼ about the way he jumps into the fourth dimension. Edwards explained it to us. So I been keepin’ my eye peeled on him. He has to go with a rope or through smoke—accordin’ to Hankʼs dope.ˮ

“Rope? Smoke? What in the devil are you raving about?ˮ raged Dyer.

“This Swami Ram’s gone. Delahunty! Do you get me? Heʼs gone! And you had him in charge. You say he was in his cell. You counted him in at ﬁve oʼclock this morning—the hall-slate shows that. Well, at six-thirty Keeper Lang unlocks that cell where Swami Ram should be—and thereʼs no Ram. But thereʼs this—ˮ he frothed as he held out the note he had picked up from the ﬂoor.

Dirty Jack shrugged his shoulders.

“I heard you the ﬁrst time you said it, warden.ˮ He sturdily stood his ground. ‟And I say that this Swamiʼs pulled this off before—thereʼs an eye-witness to what he did in this prison right now. Ask Hank Dobie how he

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seen him shin up a rope in Vancouver—held at the top by an invisible man squattinʼ in this here fourth dimension. And the old guy pulls this same Swami Ram—although he was only a kid then—right into the fourth dimension, and he never came down in Vancouver any more.ˮ

“Vancouver hell!ˮ stormed Dyer. ‟Jumpinʼ Jephosaphat. Are you bugs, Delahunty? Youʼre blattinʼ away about ropes and smokes—and unless we get this little brown dog. theyʼll he hammerin’ my bowels out on the political anvil down State inside of three days. Talk sense, will you?ˮ

‟You canʼt pass any buck to me!ˮ raged back Dirty Jack, his ugly temper rising. The long barrel of his riﬂe rested across his left arm, and his trembling ﬁngers scraped now and then along the trigger-guard.

‟Ask Burston here if that fourth dimension ainʼt the real goods. Ask Edwards. Why, Burston has got a book that explains all about it. Edwards said it made it just as plain as a picture of London. Thereʼs the thing Iʼve been watchinʼ out for—although I only understand three dimensions myself.

‟But one night I glommed this Swami Ram all ready for his getaway by the smoke-route, and Hankʼll tell you l called him hard. Then I pumped him for all I could get out of him—and he admitted that they all do it—every Hindoo savvies the game—and he said they all went the same route, but they kept away from a place he called Narak—with three gates, and hit it up for a burg he called Swarga. I been huntinʼ for them places, to get wise and beat him to it—but they must ʼaʼ changed the names. I looked for ʼem every night off for two weeks, but I canʼt ﬁnd ʼem in this country or Canada.ˮ

Warden Dyer held aloft two trembling, impotent hands.

“Narak—Swarga! Those are Malay or Chinese names, you big blob! But whatʼs the names got to do with it?ˮ

‟Everything—and thereʼs seven paths and three gates. Iʼm giving it to you straight, warden. We’d been chinninʼ in the guard-room about how these yellow beggars transmogrify with their astral body. I wasnʼt eatin’ it, either—take it from me. But when I put it up to the Swami himself, honest to Gawd he admitted the whole thing, told me about them two towns and then said something else. Wait a minute.ˮ

He rubbed his eyes vigorously.

‟Aw! I got it now. He said he was a son of Pritchardʼs, or some such a name, that he didnʼt have to work unless he wanted to, didnʼt do any more climbin’ and wouldnʼt give anybody a damn thing! Thatʼs what he said—maybe not his language, but itʼs the way I got it, anyhow.ˮ

The wondering warden wilted into a chair as Havens, the hall-keeper, hurried into the guard-room.

‟Weʼve frisked the dump from keel to main-truck, warden, and that Swami Ram is somewhere outside the walls—sureʼs youʼre alive. Iʼve started two of the boys and three trusties over the place agin, but if you want my opinion, weʼd better begin pawin’ over the woods, before he gets too big a lead on its. Thereʼs tracks, Hovey says, that look like they might be his—ˮ

‟Lead me to ʼem," deﬁantly roared Dirty Jack. ‟Let me git after him, warden, will you? I donʼt know how far he can travel ridin’ on the end of his rope—but if he comes down, Iʼll get him!ˮ

“Well, beat it out—the whole gang of you,ˮ snarled the warden. “You with your smoke and your rope, and your seven gates and two towns! Holy Moses! Iʼll be barkinʼ like a turkey myself if you keep stickin’ around here.ˮ

‟What do you make of this fourth dimension guff?ˮ groaned Warden Dyer to Principal Keeper Burston.

He and Burston had worked to-

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gether for twelve arduous years in Danforth. And more than once the stolid, hard-headed German had pulled him out when things broke bad.

He waited, expecting the keeper to start off in his usually calm, methodical, plodding fashion—sifting the wheat of good sense from the chaff of speculation. That was Burstonʼs way, ordinarily. But now he leaned forward excitedly.

“Vot does he say—I haf not the paper read, warden!ˮ

“ ‘I have implored Brahma for aid and the god has heard my prayer. I have leaped into the fourth dimension,’ signed.,‘Swami Ruin,ʼ ˮ read the chief prison official. ‟Now, what is this fourth dimension?ˮ

“It iss—it iss—vell, warden, how shall I explanation it? It is so transcendental that it iss very hard to understand yet. I haf studied dose fourth dimensions once now for fife years. I can sometimes for one leedle minute yump myself almost into der ﬁrst angles once—und den—und den—ˮ

He threw out his hands with a helpless, pathetic gesture.

Warden Dyer almost fell off his chair. But he manfully repressed his horror. He knew yesterday that he had been warden of a prison.

This morning he seemed, instead, to have suddenly become the superintendent of an insane asylum—but the terror of it lay in the fact that it was the attendants and not the inmates who were going crazy.

He reached over and gently patted Burston’s shoulder. He remembered that the ﬁrst rule for menntally afflicted people was kindness.

“Don’t take it so hard, Burston,ˮ said he, ‟Youʼve been working like a nailer for months—Iʼve been expecting to send you away for a vacation.ˮ

The principal keeper dried his tears.

“Der book vill explanation id all!ˮ he smiled. “Shall I get id, warden? It iss at my house. I vill only be gone a minute!”

‟By all means,” heartily replied Dyer. He heaved a huge breath of relief as the principal keeper vanished down the path.

Then he pressed the emergency-button to the reserve-room and the two guards still within trailed promptly out, riﬂes at ‟ready.ˮ

“You donʼt need your guns,” cautioned Dyer. “Just stick around, careless like, till Burston gets back. Heʼs gone off his nut! One of you glom his gun, quick! Then weʼll all three down him. After weʼve got him in the detention cells, one of you phone for Dr. Barstow.ˮ

V.

DIRTY JACK was worthy of his name as he trailed back into Danforth prison the evening of the third day following Swami Ramʼs leap into the fourth dimension. He had literally “dogged it” all around the valley.

With two French-Canadian trappers and their keen-nosed hounds he had followed the tracks of the supposed Swami until they led to a canoe in the river; paddled down the river till he had overtaken the canoe and narrowly escaped shooting the foremost merchant of Danforth, until he was close enough to see he was not Swami Ram.

He had worked back toward the prison, sweeping the ground in the open with huge circles, and dodging irregularly through the forest until nearly spent, he had broken through a half-mile below the prison buildings about four o’clock.

“I couldnʼt ﬁnd him,ˮ he gamely admitted to Warden Dyer, now in personal charge of the prison, while Burston, tramping up and down the big detention cage for criminal maniacs, was frantically exploding at brief intervals, trying to make clear to his superior the intricacies of the mysterious principles which Swami Ram had invoked.

‟But I think heʼs hid out somewhere along the fringe of the woods, warden. There ainʼt never a man beat it out of here for thirty-ﬁve years

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—and there’s been twenty of ʼem made the woods. I got a lot of lumbermen trailing over toward the river, and some trappers besides our own scouts are watching the creeks and bridges to the north. This Swami is a smooth hombre—heʼs mousing around somewhere right along the edges, lettinʼ the boys tire themselves out.ˮ

“Now you‘re talking sense,ˮ agreed his chief, heartily. ‟But I’ve only got Paddy Moran left inside to hold down the east hall to-night. l donʼt know who I can send.ˮ

“Send Paddy!ˮ Delahuntyʼs eagerness showed his anxiety to recapture the fugitive. “Iʼll get a couple of hoursʼ sleep and then Iʼll hold down the east hall myself. Paddyʼs game as they make ʼem—and he knows the woods as well as any man here.ˮ

Dirty Jack made the ﬁrst two counts, shuddering a little as no answer came from Swami Ramʼs late sleeping quarters. Then he rested for a few moments. His legs sagged. He had walked many miles, and he had to sit down for a short rest.

Hell is said to be paved with good intentions. Dirty Jack tested the truth of the saying almost at once. He had intended to keep awake.

He woke, instead, to ﬁnd himself even nearer hell than he had been for the previous seventy-two hours!

He was sitting in the hall chair, trussed so he could not move even a ﬁnger. A strong gag was in his mouth and only his frantic eyes performed their usual function of cognition.

Before him, smiling like real ﬂesh and blood, stood the smiling ﬁgure of Swami Ram!

He bowed politely, leaned forward, and whispered low in his ear.

‟You mistook the roads! Did I not say to avoid Narak? We are now in the fourth dimension, Sahib!ˮ The Swamiʼs ingenuous lips parted in a dazzling smile. ‟But I go on—and thou returnest—being still earthhound.ˮ

He was gone!

And Dirty Jack Delahunty remained tied fast to the night-guardʼs chair in the east hall of Danforth prison.

Warden Dyer found him there the next morning, alive. That was one surprise! The open door to the bath-room was the second—a sawed window was the third!

Outside the morning stars faded as the sun came slowly up over the hills—and revealed the footprints of Swami Ram in the long, dewey grass beneath the bath-room window.

“You say he told you he was still in the fourth dimension?ˮ patiently queried the weary warden.

Dirty Jack nodded, gloomily.

“But he carried away your six-gun and rifle?ˮ

The guard spat venomously as he had to admit the truth of the statement.

‟Well,ˮ reﬂected Dyer. “I canʼt roast you. I suppose if heʼd picked me out instead of you—for I held that hall down all alone last night—heʼd have trimmed me the same way. And I’ll take a Bible oath that guinea wasn’t in the prison yesterday—why, they frisked it ten limes. A cockroach couldnʼt have hid out on us inside the walls.ˮ

Dirty Jack came the nearest to showing gratitude that he ever had in his life.

“Youʼre sure white, warden,ˮ he gulped; “but Iʼm beginning to believe weʼve been bunked. Of course, I

never dreamed that that chocolate-coated son-of-a-gun was inside. Havens frisked every rat-hole in the place. But the fourth dimension guff donʼt go, any way you take it.ˮ

“Why so?ˮ

‟Because if he really could climb a rope into nowhere or dissolve into smoke, whyʼn the devil did he have to glom my keys and let himself into the bath-room from the east hall; and why did he have to saw out of there?ˮ

“Youʼre right, Jack,ˮ said the warden, after a momentʼs thought: ‟but

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you better keep this bottled up, because weʼve got more’n nine hundred other convicts in here, and if they can put it over like Swami Ram—you and meʼll be out of a job.ˮ

VI.

SPRING had once more touched the withered boughs of the dead trees on the hills to the north of Danforth prison.

In the valley below, the ice in the river reluctantly loosened its hold on the marshy banks, here and there on the hills the grass at last showed through the late drifts of snow, and inside the walls the subject of the fourth dimension had been replaced by other and more vital topics.

April merged into May and May blossomed into June without other escapes. The prison was well settled into its regular summer routine.

Warden Dyer was looking over the schedules for clothes for home-going men one morning, when his secretary handed him a long envelope with foreign post-marks and stamps.

“Bombay,ˮ he muttered. ‟Who in blazes is writing from from there?ˮ

He slit the end, drew out the long double folds, and spread it open. Amazement and chagrin ﬂitted over his face as he proceeded.

When he had ﬁnished, a grim smile settled upon it as he pushed a button beneath his desk.

Out in the narrow little corridor with the barred door at each end the reserve guards were gossipping as usual. Paddy Moran had just called attention to the anniversary of Swami Ramʼs escape, the departure which had driven Principal Keeper Burston insane trying to explain how the Hindoo might have really leaped into the fourth dimension.

‟Dʼye remember how Jack, here, was a goin’ to shoot him before he made that jump up the rope?ˮ he jeered.

‟Well, what of it?ˮ asked Dirty Jack.

‟Instead of his waiting for you to shoot him, heʼs waiting for you to show up in the fourth dimension and then slam a pill in your ribs from your own gun,ˮ joshed Billy Edwards.

The sergeant of the guard stuck his nose into the room.

“Warden Dyer wants to see you, Jack,ˮ he called.

“There he goes,ˮ chimed in Hank Dobie. ‟Them two has just got to get together and celebrate. Everybody celebrates an anniversary. And itʼs just one year ago to-day that Swami Ram beat it.ˮ

Warden Dyer carefully locked the door of his private ofﬁce behind Delahunty.

His face was wreathed in a smile—but the kind of a smile which makes a man shiver.

“Turn your hack, cover up your eyes, and count twenty-ﬁve slowly,ˮ said he abruptly.

The wondering guard obeyed.

At the end of the enumeration he turned curiously to see what it meant. In all his prison experience he had never before received an order like that from a superior.

His startled eyes searched the room. He was alone!

The window opening on the prison yard was tightly shut. He could plainly see the patent fastening joining the sash, locking them ﬁrmly from the inside.

The wardenʼs desk, covered with requisitions for home-going prisoners to be soon discharged occupied the center of the room, the chairs were in their usual places, the pictures on the wall hung, the way they always did—but Warden Dyer was gone as mysteriously as if he had followed Swami Ram into the fourth dimension.

Dirty Jack was paralyzed. There was nothing else in the room, save a slender, three-legged table, such as the convicts were allowed to have in their cells.

It stood over in the comer, but he could plainly see the pattern of the

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wall-paper and the base-boards along the floor beneath its legs.

The awed silence grew upon him. Here was something so utterly mysterious that it appalled him. The eery feeling grew until the cold sweat broke out upon his brow. He was face to face with an infinitude of bewilderment—a fantasy bred of the powers of darkness.

Danforth was no longer a secure prison for the lawbreaker—it was simply an enchanted spot where men leaped into nothing—without even the expected formality of climbing a rope that stood on end without reason, or a trace of accommodating smoke to mark their passing.

With a wild yell Dirty Jack twisted the key in the dour, jerked it open and started down the corridor, when the imperative voice of Warden Dyer palsied his quivering legs.

‟Come back here—you big bloater!ˮ roared the chief excutive. Dirty Jack obeyed—unwillingly perhaps but none the less readily.

The satirically smiling man who had arrested his flight stood at the end of the disordered desk.

“I just wanted to see how long it would take me to duplicate Swami Ramʼs leap into the fourth dimension,ˮ said he. ‟And the way I did it while your back was turned conﬁrms my suspicions that you have been in the habit of sleeping on night duty in the east hall—for he could never have put over what he did if you had been on the job.ˮ

He glared at the discomﬁted man with a savage expression which prophesied a short shrift for the bullying officer.

‟You came pow-wowing in here the morning after that smooth rascal stood the prison on its head with a flub-dub story about ʽNarakʼ and ‘Swarga.ʼ You blatted around about some place with three gates!ˮ

The raging official jerked the tiny table from the corner.

“Hereʼs your two mysterious cities—see that piece of polished tin—there’s your ‘Narak,ʼ and you wonʼt have to travel far to ﬁnd ʽSwarga,ʼ for itʼs right on the other side. Your three gates are the three legs of the table which was in the next cell to Swami Ramʼs—the cell he broke into when you were slapping between counts in the east hall.ˮ

“I never slept a minute!” protested Delahunty. “You’re giving me a dirty deal, warden.ˮ

“Oh, I am, am I? Well, maybe you can explain how a man can run around on the gallery of his company, night in and night out, ﬁtting keys to locks, letting himself from one cell to another if you were on your job. And after you let him put that over on you—you sit down again, go to sleep, let him stick you up like a chicken, glom your guns and keys, and then saw out! You want to know about thisfourth dimension—the thing that let Swami Ram get away and that drove poor old Burston crazy trying to ﬁgure out? Well, Iʼll give you all the fourth dimension you’ll ever want to hear of—and then Iʼll kick you out of the front gate into the forty-fourth dimension, just for luck! Read that!ˮ

He thrust a sheet of paper covered with close, precise handwriting under the eyes of the amazed guard. And Dirty Jack read:

Bombay, India.

DEAR SIR:

I thought that you might like to know how l escaped from Danforth. It was very mystifying, I suppose, but it was so simple that I really feel ashamed when I tell it. I got the idea from Crossman's escape. He climbed up on the roof, in full view of the guards, because they all thought he was carrrying a pass, when it was really a sheet of blank paper. It was not what the paper really was—it was what the guards thought it was—that helped him. They were simply looking at one thing when they thought they were looking at another.

That was the principle I used. I made a cell key at night in my bed. Those old fashioned locks are easy. I slipped out at night, and got the three-legged table from the empty cell next to mine. In the two front legs I ﬁtted two neat sheets of tin

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which I carried in from the tin-shop where I worked. I carefully notched the table legs, ﬁtted the tin into place, and put it back in the empty cell. Keeper Lang will tell you how nicely my coffee-pots used to look. I polished them until they shone like mirrors. I did the same with the two sheets of tin between the table-legs of the empty cell. When you stood in the door and looked in that cell, you saw apparently right between the legs and saw the white-washed wall behind. But really you only saw the reﬂection on the tin of the whitewashed walls at the two sides. That left a ﬁne place behind for a little man to hide in. The night I left I made my bed after the ﬁve o'clock count, folded it up, slipped out of my own cell, and slipped into the empty one—relocking both cells behind me. Then I crawled under the table and waited for the note in my cell to be found. When the search was made, no one came into the empty cell, for it was very plainly empty—anybody could see that through the door.

The night that Guard Delahunty came back to stand watch in the east hall, I came out of hiding and tied him fast while he was asleep. Then I unlocked the door to the bathroom with his keys, and used the saw I had hidden in my coat to cut my way out through the window. The rest was easy, because most of the guards are superstitious or cowardly, and would not care to get too close to me, after I had taken Delahunty’s rifle and revolver.

Delahunty gave me that idea of the fourth dimension one night. He insisted I had climbed a rope and vanished in Vancouver. So I vanished a second time. The money I got from the ticket-wagon will last a long time in India. I'm very wealthy, according to our ideas. I dug it up before continuing my journey here. think I shall like India better than America hereafter. I wish you could be here long enough to hear the chanting of the priests along the sacred Ganges, when they adore Brahma. If you come this way, let me know. I am not afraid of being retaken, for I have ﬁve brothers, and we look so exactly alike you could not tell which one of us used to live at your house. Tell Delahunty I just killed a tiger with that good riﬂe of his—aud it had a face almost as ﬁerce as his own the day he killed Crossman.

Good-by and good luck,

SWAMI RAM.

Dirty Jack raised his eyes and looked at the warden for a moment or two.

“Well, I guess I'll be on my way,ˮ he remarked. “What you need around here for guards is university perfesssors. But Iʼd rather be back stirrin’ pulp in the papermill than tryin’ to break into the same asylum where Burston’s got a life-job giving lectures.”

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SOURCE: Blighton, Frank. “Into the Fourth Dimensionˮ [featuring Swami Ram], The Cavalier, vol. 24, no. 2, January 11, 1913, pp. 344-359.

Note: Neither the original typography nor the original two-column formatting is preserved here.