Читать книгу The Four-Masted Cat-Boat, and Other Truthful Tales онлайн

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“But hasn’t it some general direction? Up or down, north or south, east or west?”

“Griggs,” said I, “is this your mind?”

“Yes,” said he.

“Well, go ahead; fire it off; unfold your kinks!” said I, leaning back in my seat; “but kindly remember that I have no mind, and if you can’t put it in words of one syllable, talk slowly so that I can follow you.”

He promised to put it as plainly as though he were talking to his youngest, aged three; and, with this assurance, my cerebrum braced itself, so to speak, and awaited the onslaught.

“My idea of the direction of time in all its divisions and subdivisions is as follows—”

“Say, Griggs,” said I, “let’s go into the smoker. A little oil of nicotine always makes my brain work easier.”

When we were seated in the smoker, and had each lighted a cigar, he went on:

“Assuming that I am facing the north, far in the southwest is the Garden of Eden and the early years of recorded time. Moving eastward run the centuries, and the years to come and the end of the world are in the far east.”