Boswell was a little late in arriving the next night. He had
agreed to be on hand exactly at midnight, but it was after
one o'clock before the machine began to click and the bell
to ring. I had fallen asleep in the soft upholstered depths
of my armchair, feeling pretty thoroughly worn out by the
experiences of the night before, which, in spite of their
pleasant issue, were nevertheless somewhat disturbing to a
nervous organization like mine. Suddenly I waked, and with the
awakening there entered into my mind the notion that the whole
thing was merely a dream, and that in the end it would be the
better for me if I were to give up Aldus and other club dinners
with nightmare inducing menus. But I was soon convinced that the
real state of affairs was quite otherwise, and that everything
really had happened as I have already related it to you, for
I had hardly gotten my eyes free from what my poetic son calls
"the seeds of sleep" when I heard the type-writer tap forth:

"Hello, old man!"

Incidentally let me say that this had become another interesting
feature of the machine. Since my first interview with Boswell
the taps seemed to speak, and if some one were sitting before
it and writing a line the mere differentiation of sounds of the
various keys would convey to the mind the ideas conveyed to it
by the printed words. So, as I say, my ears were greeted with
a clicking "Hello, old man!" followed immediately by the bell.