Transcribe
Translate
Leprechaun, v. 1, issue 1, March 1942
Page 7
More information
digital collection
archival collection guide
transcription tips
LEPRECHAUN , 7 THE WORLD WITHIN by Philip A. Schumann It was one of these wet, rainy, April nights. Every little raindrop represented itself as a distinct "ping" against the tin roof of the sunroom. It was a nasty night to be out in; and a faraway foghorn bleating out a mournful dirge, punctuated by the lingering notes of a dismal train whistle, did little to remove the feeling of oppression and loneliness from my spirits. At about nine o'clock I dosed off, despite the radio's insistent blast in my ear and the staccato chatter of rain drumming on the roof. And then I had a dream. At the time I was addicted to reading a type of story some of us call fantasy, and even in my sleep I was pelted with thoughts of the subject, in the form of dreams. This time it resolved itself particularly about a certain author on the other side of town, whom I had been trying to summon up enough courage to visit for a fortnight or so, without success. I had never seen him, but the dream introduced him to me,,, and how. I don't know what might have happened next if a jangling telephone and not aroused me to wakefulness. With a snort and a start I rose and shot a glance at the clock on the mantel as I groped my way through the room. In the halflight shed by the feeble desklamp, the hands denoted twelve o'clock. Had I slept so long? It didn't seem so, but... when a person dreams, each sleeping minute equals a waking hour. The late caller turned out to be an old high school side kick Joe Sander, He was extremely excited, even to the point of trying his best to shatter an eardrum -- my eardrum. When he managed to speak coherently... "I've got it, Paul. I've got it. Yippee!" "Calm down. you nut. What have you got, how did you get it, and why don't you get rid of it? Is it contagious?" "Don't be silly, Paul." The shouting ceased, though he made no effort to conceal the joyous pitch of his voice. "I may be only a cub reporter, but I've been granted an interview with Arthur Bristol himself!" A crackle that I took to be a chuckle shook the earphone. "You mean..." "Yep. The old boy has finally realized that, as an author, it might not be so bad after all to have some publicity; and so... so we go to his place tomorrow." "You mean.." "Yep. The old boy has finally realized that, as an author, it might not be so bad after all to have some publicity; and so.... so we go to his place tomorrow." "We?" "Of course we. You want to see him, don't you?" "Yeah, but.." "Okay, then. This is your chance. The guy has never granted an interview before, and he probably never will again. You'll go as my... ah.... photographer. Yeah, as my photographer. I'll call for you at ten sharp in the morning with plenty of gas in the buggy, and a camera, so don't worry about its costing you a cent. So long." He clicked off. I was glad, of course, but a little dubious of the outcome of the visit. There was that dream. I switched off the radio and light and groped my way to the bedroom. As I climbed beneath the covers, everything of the day faded into unimportance. Sleep was the thing. The rain had stopped, but the
Saving...
prev
next
LEPRECHAUN , 7 THE WORLD WITHIN by Philip A. Schumann It was one of these wet, rainy, April nights. Every little raindrop represented itself as a distinct "ping" against the tin roof of the sunroom. It was a nasty night to be out in; and a faraway foghorn bleating out a mournful dirge, punctuated by the lingering notes of a dismal train whistle, did little to remove the feeling of oppression and loneliness from my spirits. At about nine o'clock I dosed off, despite the radio's insistent blast in my ear and the staccato chatter of rain drumming on the roof. And then I had a dream. At the time I was addicted to reading a type of story some of us call fantasy, and even in my sleep I was pelted with thoughts of the subject, in the form of dreams. This time it resolved itself particularly about a certain author on the other side of town, whom I had been trying to summon up enough courage to visit for a fortnight or so, without success. I had never seen him, but the dream introduced him to me,,, and how. I don't know what might have happened next if a jangling telephone and not aroused me to wakefulness. With a snort and a start I rose and shot a glance at the clock on the mantel as I groped my way through the room. In the halflight shed by the feeble desklamp, the hands denoted twelve o'clock. Had I slept so long? It didn't seem so, but... when a person dreams, each sleeping minute equals a waking hour. The late caller turned out to be an old high school side kick Joe Sander, He was extremely excited, even to the point of trying his best to shatter an eardrum -- my eardrum. When he managed to speak coherently... "I've got it, Paul. I've got it. Yippee!" "Calm down. you nut. What have you got, how did you get it, and why don't you get rid of it? Is it contagious?" "Don't be silly, Paul." The shouting ceased, though he made no effort to conceal the joyous pitch of his voice. "I may be only a cub reporter, but I've been granted an interview with Arthur Bristol himself!" A crackle that I took to be a chuckle shook the earphone. "You mean..." "Yep. The old boy has finally realized that, as an author, it might not be so bad after all to have some publicity; and so... so we go to his place tomorrow." "You mean.." "Yep. The old boy has finally realized that, as an author, it might not be so bad after all to have some publicity; and so.... so we go to his place tomorrow." "We?" "Of course we. You want to see him, don't you?" "Yeah, but.." "Okay, then. This is your chance. The guy has never granted an interview before, and he probably never will again. You'll go as my... ah.... photographer. Yeah, as my photographer. I'll call for you at ten sharp in the morning with plenty of gas in the buggy, and a camera, so don't worry about its costing you a cent. So long." He clicked off. I was glad, of course, but a little dubious of the outcome of the visit. There was that dream. I switched off the radio and light and groped my way to the bedroom. As I climbed beneath the covers, everything of the day faded into unimportance. Sleep was the thing. The rain had stopped, but the
Hevelin Fanzines
sidebar
