John Kendrick Bangs

The Enchanted Type-Writer John Kendrick Bangs

"Who is there?" I cried, making a vocal display of bravery I did not feel, hiding behind our hair sofa. The only answer was another click. "This is serious," I whispered softly to myself. "There are two of 'em; I am in the light, unarmed. They are concealed by the darkness and have revolvers. There is only one way out of this, and that is by strategy. I'll pretend I think I've made a mistake." So I addressed myself aloud. "What an idiot you are," I said, so that my words could be heard by the burglars. "If this is the effect of Aldus Club dinners you'd better give them up. That click wasn't a click at all, but the ticking of our new eight-day clock." I paused, and from the corner there came a dozen more clicks in quick succession, like the cocking of as many revolvers. "Great Heavens!" I murmured, under my breath. "It must be Ali Baba with his forty thieves." As I spoke, the mystery cleared itself, for following close upon a thirteenth click came the gentle ringing of a bell, and I knew then that the type-writing machine was in action; but this was by no means a reassuring discovery.