Amateur Cadger? I don't follow.' I met the eye of the Psychologist,

and read my own interpretation in his face. I thought of the Time

Traveller limping painfully upstairs. I don't think any one else had

noticed his lameness.

The first to recover completely from this surprise was the Medical

Man, who rang the bell--the Time Traveller hated to have servants

waiting at dinner--for a hot plate. At that the Editor turned to his

knife and fork with a grunt, and the Silent Man followed suit. The

dinner was resumed. Conversation was exclamatory for a little while,

with gaps of wonderment; and then the Editor got fervent in his

curiosity. 'Does our friend eke out his modest income with a

crossing? or has he his Nebuchadnezzar phases?' he inquired. 'I feel

assured it's this business of the Time Machine,' I said, and took up

the Psychologist's account of our previous meeting. The new guests

were frankly incredulous. The Editor raised objections. 'What was

this time travelling? A man couldn't cover himself with dust by

rolling in a paradox, could he?' And then, as the idea came home to

him, he resorted to caricature. Hadn't they any clothes-brushes in

the Future? The Journalist too, would not believe at any price, and

joined the Editor in the easy work of heaping ridicule on the whole

thing. They were both the new kind of journalist--very joyous,

irreverent young men. 'Our Special Correspondent in the Day

after To-morrow reports,' the Journalist was saying--or rather

shouting--when the Time Traveller came back. He was dressed in

ordinary evening clothes, and nothing save his haggard look remained

The Time Machine