Free Not Quite Dead by John MacLachlan Gray Page A

detachment that might well come over a man who has just jumped from a tall building, and can only lie back and enjoy the temporary sense of flying. “I expect the coat could do with an airing. I compliment you for avoiding the vest and shirt.”
    “There’s no need for sarcasm, Willie. To pass for me, he must wear my clothes. Surely that is obvious. It is also obvious that I can’t walk through Baltimore in my underwear.”
    As he brushed the dead man’s dandruff from his shoulder it occurred to me that he was about to vacate the premises—escape rather, leaving me to deal with the remains.
    He slipped on the coat and turned up the sleeves. “How do I look?”
    “I do not feel qualified to render an opinion.”
    “I’ll not forget what you have done for me, Willie. I swear you will be repaid.”
    “I beg you, Eddie, do not even consider repayment.”
    “Wish me luck,” he said.
    “Good luck to you.”
    “You’re a strange, dark fellow, Willie, but you’re the best friend I have in the world.”
    “Do you know, Eddie, I am afraid you may be right.”
    DICKENS COMING TO AMERICA
by Sanford W. Mitchell, The Philadelphia Inquirer
America’s reading set is a-twitter over the proposed reading tour of Mr. Charles Dickens. Already appearances by the literary lion have been scheduled in Boston, Worcester, Harvard, New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Richmond, and Washington. The Young Men of Boston have announced a public dinner in his honor, and a “Boz Ball” will take place at the Park Theater in New York, where Mr. Francis Alexander has been engaged to undertake his portrait. In Washington, he will attend a levee with the president.
“Here is a son of a haberdasher with no hereditary title, no military laurels, and no princely fortune,” remarked Dr. William Ellery Fanning. “His approach will surely be hailed by Americans of every age and condition, and his welcome will be all heart.”
    A NY FEELING OF satisfaction I might seem to have experienced, any roguish excitement at a boyhood escapade came to an abrupt end with five knocks on my door the next morning.
    I had not slept a wink, having spent the night listening to the creaking of my rope bed as I squirmed back and forth, seeking a comfortable position between sandpaper sheets.
    I sprang bolt upright. Beads of sweat greased my brow, and more trickled down my rib cage—a fever? I examined the pocket watch on my bedside table: Nine o’clock. I had overslept. Slept? Is it possible that I spent the night in a delirium?
    Five more knocks on the door.
    More sweat, more blood coursing past the eardrums and a gathering cloud of doom overhead: What have I done? What am I going to do?
    In my mind, the familiar voice of my old friend whispered: Remain calm, Willie .
    Five more knocks. Whoever they were, they would not go away. I could feel the brass rails hard and cold against my spine like prison bars.
    I stumbled to my dressing table, opened my doctor’s bag, and removed Poe’s Salter of cocaine. “Wait, please. I shall be there in a minute,” I called, in a calm, untroubled voice.
    What have I done? What am I going to do?
    Then came a muffled voice on the other side of the door: Dr. Chivers! It is nine o’clock and there is an important visitor for Mr. Poe!
    I turned the iron knob and opened the door a reticent six inches. I would not have been surprised to see a robed skeleton on the other side—or worse, a policeman. Instead, I faced the scrubbed, merciless, familiar face of Nurse Slatin, fist upraised, about to knock for the third time, her starched uniform a wall of blue with a white collar, cap and cuffs, and that face, with the broad nose and the permanent stony grimace.
    “Yes, nurse, what is it?”
    “Mr. Neilson Poe, sir. The cousin has come to inquire after your patient.”
    For a moment I stood there, tongue-tied. She took this for assent.
    “Shall I fetch Mr. Poe then, sir?”
    “Nurse Slatin, the patient has congestion of the brain and