"You never rescued me from any attic," the machine
replied. "You'd better go to bed; you've dined too well,
I imagine. When did you rescue me from the dust and dirt and
the cobwebs of any attic?"

"What an ungrateful machine you are!" I cried. "If you have
sense enough to go into writing on your own account, you ought
to have mind enough to remember the years you spent up-stairs
under the roof neglected, and covered with hammocks, awnings,
family portraits, and receipted bills."

"Really, my dear fellow," the machine tapped back, "I must
repeat it. Bed is the place for you. You're not coherent. I'm
not a machine, and upon my honor, I've never seen your darned
old attic."

"Not a machine!" I cried. "Then what in Heaven's name are
you?--a sofa-cushion?"

"Don't be sarcastic, my dear fellow," replied the machine. "Of
course I'm not a machine; I'm Jim--Jim Boswell."

"What?" I roared. "You? A thing with keys and type and a bell--"

"I haven't got any keys or any type or a bell. What on earth
are you talking about?" replied the machine. "What have you
been eating?"

"What's that?" I asked, putting my hand on the keys.