WHEN THE SLEEPER WAKES.

Observer, Volume XXVII, Issue 39, 15 June 1907, Page 18

WHEN THE SLEEPER WAKES.

(WITH APOLOGIES TO H. G. WELLS).

(By Our Somnambulistic Sentimentalist),

THE old man came and bent over the glass case with interrogation in his eye. "So you are awake at last," he said. His voice was strangely muffled. It came to me through the air-holes of the glass covering. " What do you mean by 'at. • last' ?" I retorted. I couldn't help speaking sharply. I had a headache. . . . That smoke concert. I remembered at the time the whisky had a peculiar taste. . . . I sat uj and stared. '' W nere the deuce am 1, anyway ?" I demanded. " Wko put me here ? You have no right to do this sort of thing just because the lobster made me sleepy. . . . There was too much smoke. , . . Where are my togs ¥ I'm going to get up." The old man raised the glass shade. " Your what r 1 " he asked. I reached for a boot to throw at him. I could not find one. Surely 1 had not gone to bed in them. . . . I kicked out vigorously and the old man yelled. " Stop that row," 1 said abruptly. " Where are my boots ?. I don't remember " " Ah 1" the old man came forward rubbing his loft eye. ... I must have landed him one with my foot. " You want your clothes. X see." He smiled approvingly. " Clothes 1" 1 replied. " Ot course I want my clothes. You don't want me to parside Queen-street in my pyjamas, 1 suppose. . . . Think of (Sergeant Hendry . . . and there are ladies . . . the W.C.T.U. . . . You must be a bally ass I" The old man eyed me reflectively. He shrugged his shoulders. If I could have found a boot . . . a soap dish ... a hair-brush . . . anything at all — I would have thrown it it him. " Sergeant Bendry,' he muttered, "the W.O.T.U. ... I'm afraid I . . , You see, I don't quite understand you. You've been asleep . . . but I don't think you will believe me. I " He jibbered idiotically. I reached out with my fist and it came home on his nose with a bang. " You've been asleep, I think," I said. " I've been asleep, too, if you come to that ... It was that infernal smoke . . . and the whisky . . . there was lobster, too . - . and the greatest of these was the lobster ... it couldn't have been the whisky." I broke off abruptly and stared around me. "Where the deuce am I ?" I exclaimed. ' "This iF the museum," replied the old man. " You've been asleep . . . . asleep for some time . but yon would not understand." " Understand 1" I retorted. "No, I don't. ' It's a nice state of affairs if a man can't go to sleep without - •■„. being shoved into a glass case in a ■bally museum. , . . Most un- ". gentlemanly behaviour. . . . ill -have to see John Payne about this. Why shouldn't Igo to sleep if I like ? You go to sleep some time, I take it." 1 reached out with my - foot once inorej a,nd the old man shut down the glass case with a bang. ;..-' The sharp edge caught one of my ; toes ... I ought to have sworn . . .1 didn't ... I don't know why I didn't . . . but I didn't. I pressed my full weight against : the glass case ... it wouldn't budge. " Let me out I" I yelled. And because I yelled, the old man came and squirted water at me through the air-holes. . . . Then I swore. ".Look here," said the old man through the air-hole." Listen to me. I intended to break it gently . . .. but you have been rude . . . you . don't deserve any consideration. Are you aware that you have been asleep for three hundred years ?" " No," I replied. " I'm not. But _-' I am aware tnab you ought to be

back in Avondale." . . . And yet ... it was all very strange • the glass case . the museum . . . " Dinkum ?" I inquired, and the old man stared. "Dink — what did you say ?" he asked. ' ' Dinkum ? Is what you tell me the straight griffin, or are you larking and pulling my leg ?" . . . The old man stuttered. . . . "Great Scott I" I yelled, "don't you understand the King's English ? Is what you tell me ail segarnio, or is it a bally have ? Because if you think you're going to poke borax at me, you'll " I stopped ... he evidently didn't understand ... it was very strange. " Straight griffin ? . . . larking ? . . . pulling your leg ? . . . all segarnio ? . . . bally have ? . . . borax r* . . . I don't know what you mean. But you have been asleep for three hundred years . . . yes, that is true." . " Then," I replied, " I reckon I've slept enough for one night . . . I'll get up. Three hundred years that's a fair spell. Let's see — it was 1907 when 1 went to that infernal smoke concert . . . Where the whisky was . . . and the lobster. Three hundred years ! Well, this must be tne year 2207. Get me some clothes, will you, and I'll take a walk down Queen-street and see the girls. . . . They must be pretty plentiful now. 1 remember there was a fair surplus of them before I ... that whisky must have been drugged .• . . or the lobster. For the Lord's sake hurry up with those clothes." He brought me a blanket-like arrangement similar to the one he was wearing, and assisted me to put it on toga-fashion "Now. we're ready," he said ... I stared. " Heady 1" I replied, "I don't want a Turkish bath. I want to go down Queen-street to see the girls. . . . Do- you think I'm going out with nothing but this bally hearth rug wrapped round me . . . Perhaps you would like me to do a song and dance turn at Fullers . . . Where are my clothes ?" " Clothes ?" said the old man. " What more do you want ? This is the costume which has been approved by the Auckland Democratic Council. . . . We all wear the same now, you know . . . we are Socialists." "Are you ?" I replied. "Then why the dickens couldn't you let me sleep P . . . That whisky at the smoke concert . . . and the lobster . . . have made me dry. Can't we have a drink ?' " Certainly," replied my guide. " You can have some democratic soup. But it's hardly feeding time yet. You'll be fed in about an hour." " Soup — democratic soup 1 ... I don't want soup, democratic or otherwise. Haven't you any whisky . . . beer .... lemonade ... I could even drink King Country hop-beer at a pinch. And, anyway, who wants to be fed ? Why, before I went to sleep, we fed ourselves at Frank Towsey's." " Ah 1 we've altered all that," replied the old man. "The Democratic Council sends round men to feed you now. In your day, you see . . . things were so unequal. One man would be having steak and oysters, while another would have tripe and onions. This was against all the principles of socialism ... it was absurd . . . unequal, you understand. Now, each man takes what the Council gives him." "But, suppose he didn't happen to like it. . . . They might want to give me lobster 1" "It doesn't matter whether you like it or whether you don't like it. . . . You've got to eat it. If you don't, then they operate on you with a forcing machine . . .irs rather

unpleasant . . . but you "will learn. Are you ready to come out ?" " Well, I don't know," I answered. "I feel cold . . . about the feet . . . and elsewhere. Couldn't I get a pair of boots ?" "Boots . • . do you want to cover your feet ?" " You don't suppose I'd wear 'em on my head, do you ? Why shouldn't I cover my feet if I want to ... I'm not extra proud of them . . . can't I have a wash ?" " A wash 1" echoed this sublime old idiot. " The Democratic Council will send a man round to wash you before you get your democratic soup. You will be washed then." "Be washed I Jumping Moses ! I don't want to be washed I Can't I wash myself ?" " Certainly not . . . really, your ideas are . . . however, never mind. In your day, people used to Wash themselves. Some would only wash themselves once a week . others three times a day. Some would use scented soap . . . others bath brick. It was unequal. Now, we are all washed five times a day . . with a scrubbing brush hard . . . and sand soat> ... it hurts sometimes." "So I should imagine. But, tell me, who washes the Democratic Council ?' " Really, your ideas are . . . nobody washes them . . . they are pure. Why should they want washing ?" " Well, I don't know why, exactly. But if they don't wash themselves . . . and nobody else washes them . . . don't they ever want excavating ?" My guide looked stern. " You are blaspheming," he said. " The Democratic Council is supreme . . . faultless." " But you said that all men are now equal." " All but the Democratic Council. They are supreme." " Who elects them ?" " Elect ! What do you mean by elect ? They gravitate naturally to the Council by virtue of their qualifications . ' ' "What qualifications?" I inquired. "The qualification of chique," he replied . "In the old days you will pardon me ... I am speaking of your time now — you would have called the members of the Council ' labour agitators ' we have changed all that." I followed my guide in thoughtful silence. We took a walk through the museum. ... It was uninteresting. One exhibit consisted of a pair of boots . . . "They're mine !" I gasped, and grabbed for them. . . . My guide stopped me. " Keep your profaning touch off these sacred emblems/ he said. "Read the label."' I referred to the label. It read : "No. 578. Boots of the 20th century. Supposed to have belonged to Arthur Rosser, the working man's friend. Note the worn-out condition of the soles, denoting the strenuous life of the wearer." . . Hard by were the fragments of a pair of socks " supposed to have belonged to R. F. Way, the Labour philanthropic, who had a fight with a tram-car and lost." ... I r.eeled against a pillar. . . " Smelling salts — quick 1" I yelled to my guide. " Smelling salts !" he cried. " Well, I will send a petition to the Democratic Council asking for some. You see, people generally don't have smelling salts. If you had them, things would not be equal." " They don't have smelling salts ?" " Certainly not." "Do they often come and look at these exhibits . . these boots . . and socks . . and other things ?" " Crowds of them — every day" "Jerusalem !" I replied. "Constitutions must have got stronger since my time. Haven't you any inspectors P . . . Oh, come on, and let's see the rest of the show." We merged into what used to be known as Princes-street. The Nortnern Club building was still standing. I turned to my guide. "I thought you said everybody wasequal, I remarked.. ; "In my day, that place was the abode of the aristocraoy4Hour Nathans .-.. ,;. arid

Hansens . . and Thorne Georges . . . • and Ferro-Concrete Robertsons. . . . Apparently the Dlace still exists." "Not at all," replied my guide " What you call your aristocracy was swept away in the historical revolution of 1910, when James Aggers, the fighting man, led the noble army of socialists on to victory. . . Pardon my enthusiasm. . . You see, if you don't enthuse over the Democratic Council, you are put in gaol. . . This club belongs to the Council . . . They must have recreation. . .they work so hard." "What at?" "Oh, I don't know. Their deliberations are secret . . but they work hard." A sudden thought struck me. "By the way, 5^ I observed, "I'd like to have a look at your Town Hall. I remember in my time. . . I wonder if P. A. Vaile " " Town Hall P" said the old man. " Oil, that isn't built yet." " Isn't built ? Why they had all the plans ready in my time. . . three hundred years ago." " Ah, yes," replied my guide. But one must not hurry over these things . . it doesn't do." "Well," I answered, "I don't see that your bally Democratic Council is any better than our old City Council. What about the Cemetery Bridge ?" " Not begun yet." " And the electric light P" . " We don't use electricity except in the houses of the Democratic Councillors. The general public use kerosene. That makes them all equal." " What about the tram-cars ?" "There are no tram-cars. The Democratic Councillors have flying machines. Other people have to walk. . . . It's more equal. Why should one man be able to ride in a car, and another have to walk ?" "Have you any theatres ?" "Certainly not. . . . The Democratic Councillors did not approve of theatres for the common people. The Councillors have a private theatre of their own." "And you have no aristocracy ?" "I've already told you we haven't." "What do you call your Democratic Councillors ?" " They — why, they have chique. They are in a class apart." " Well, if you ask me," I replied, ' : I think that they are the only people who are getting any good out of the job. . . . You peonle are what . . in the bad old days . . . we would have called . . a lot of . . silly chumps. As for the Democratic Councillors . they are a lot of bally, grasping At this point one of the Democratic Council's minions approached to feed me on democratic soup. I seized one of Arthur Rosser's democratic boots, and was about to throw it at the democratic soup-bearer's head, when the alarm clock went off with a bang ,and I discovered that I was back once more into the 20th century. Which was a blessing.