"That's keys," was the answer.

"And these, and that?" I added, indicating the type and
the bell.

"Type and bell," replied the machine.

"And yet you say you haven't got them," I persisted.

"No, I haven't. The machine has got them, not I," was the
response. "I'm not the machine. I'm the man that's using
it--Jim--Jim Boswell. What good would a bell do me? I'm not a
cow or a bicycle. I'm the editor of the Stygian Gazette, and
I've come here to copy off my notes of what I see and hear,
and besides all this I do type-writing for various people in
Hades, and as this machine of yours seemed to be of no use to
you I thought I'd try it. But if you object, I'll go."

As I read these lines upon the paper I stood amazed and
delighted.

"Go!" I cried, as the full value of his patronage of my machine
dawned upon me, for I could sell his copy and he would be none
the worse off, for, as I understand the copyright laws, they
are not designed to benefit authors, but for the protection
of type-setters. "Why, my dear fellow, it would break my
heart if, having found my machine to your taste, you should
ever think of using another. I'll lend you my bicycle, too,
if you'd like it--in fact, anything I have is at your command."