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Rosebud, v. 1, issue 4, April 1945
Page 5
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Some of these people he would know by sight, some by name, and one was a personal acquaintance. Each of them made themselves known to him in some manner, as had Langhoff. And always, by word or sign, they indicated a date. In one night's dream Scott picked up a newspaper from his stand and read of the death of Gerald Langhoff. The shock awoke him. Scott continued to stagger the mailing of the letters. The police or the postoffice men would be watching for them by this time, would stick little colored pins in a map where each was picked up and recognized. They would wait only long enough for the pins to form a circle, and then they would close into the center. He even began to create a false circle. Without warning, Scott found himself waiting tables in that restaurant again. Langhoff's widow was dining at his table, alone. She thanked him pleasantly for the water he had brought in that earlier, identical dream; and she said, yes, Friday had been the day it had happened. It was nice of him to send a letter, reminding them. Now she would like to repay his kindness. Would Scott be good enough to leave his address, that she might write him on the morrow? He jotted down his street and number on the back of a guest check. She put it in her purse and smiled her thanks. Then she left, but he didn't awaken right away. When he did wake he leaped out of bed and dressed in a hurry; he grabbed his lunch box and ran for the bus. He was almost half an hour early but he rode out to the museum anyway. He looked woodenly at the mummy cases and assured himself he was awake--now. He had been looking at those cases for years. They were real. Last night was the dream. By noon he was exhausted. He couldn't eat the lunch that he had packed. He threw it in the locker and walked outside to think. On an impulse he leaped aboard the first bus. It was an agonizing long time making its way across town. People stared at his uniform. At his corner he jumped off and ran. The mailbox was in sight, a grey-metal thing nailed beside the door. He kept his eyes on it as he ran. He couldn't help himself. This was real. This was daylight. There was a letter in the box for him. The postmark was smudged and undecipherable. He looked at the handwriting which curled backward in a feminine manner. Automatically he studied the capital letters in his name; then he sat down on the steps and tore open the envelope. She hand't signed her name. She merely said that she, the writer, would miss him two weeks from today, and that she was terribly sorry. There was no date indicated. He dropped the letter in his pocket. -5-
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Some of these people he would know by sight, some by name, and one was a personal acquaintance. Each of them made themselves known to him in some manner, as had Langhoff. And always, by word or sign, they indicated a date. In one night's dream Scott picked up a newspaper from his stand and read of the death of Gerald Langhoff. The shock awoke him. Scott continued to stagger the mailing of the letters. The police or the postoffice men would be watching for them by this time, would stick little colored pins in a map where each was picked up and recognized. They would wait only long enough for the pins to form a circle, and then they would close into the center. He even began to create a false circle. Without warning, Scott found himself waiting tables in that restaurant again. Langhoff's widow was dining at his table, alone. She thanked him pleasantly for the water he had brought in that earlier, identical dream; and she said, yes, Friday had been the day it had happened. It was nice of him to send a letter, reminding them. Now she would like to repay his kindness. Would Scott be good enough to leave his address, that she might write him on the morrow? He jotted down his street and number on the back of a guest check. She put it in her purse and smiled her thanks. Then she left, but he didn't awaken right away. When he did wake he leaped out of bed and dressed in a hurry; he grabbed his lunch box and ran for the bus. He was almost half an hour early but he rode out to the museum anyway. He looked woodenly at the mummy cases and assured himself he was awake--now. He had been looking at those cases for years. They were real. Last night was the dream. By noon he was exhausted. He couldn't eat the lunch that he had packed. He threw it in the locker and walked outside to think. On an impulse he leaped aboard the first bus. It was an agonizing long time making its way across town. People stared at his uniform. At his corner he jumped off and ran. The mailbox was in sight, a grey-metal thing nailed beside the door. He kept his eyes on it as he ran. He couldn't help himself. This was real. This was daylight. There was a letter in the box for him. The postmark was smudged and undecipherable. He looked at the handwriting which curled backward in a feminine manner. Automatically he studied the capital letters in his name; then he sat down on the steps and tore open the envelope. She hand't signed her name. She merely said that she, the writer, would miss him two weeks from today, and that she was terribly sorry. There was no date indicated. He dropped the letter in his pocket. -5-
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