II--STATEMENT OF CASPAR GRATTAN

To-day I am said to live; to-morrow, here in this room, will lie a
senseless shape of clay that all too long was I. If anyone lift the
cloth from the face of that unpleasant thing it will be in
gratification of a mere morbid curiosity. Some, doubtless, will go
further and inquire, "Who was he?" In this writing I supply the only
answer that I am able to make--Caspar Grattan. Surely, that should
be enough. The name has served my small need for more than twenty
years of a life of unknown length. True, I gave it to myself, but
lacking another I had the right. In this world one must have a name;
it prevents confusion, even when it does not establish identity.
Some, though, are known by numbers, which also seem inadequate
distinctions.

One day, for illustration, I was passing along a street of a city,
far from here, when I met two men in uniform, one of whom, half
pausing and looking curiously into my face, said to his companion,
"That man looks like 767." Something in the number seemed familiar
and horrible. Moved by an uncontrollable impulse, I sprang into a
side street and ran until I fell exhausted in a country lane.

I have never forgotten that number, and always it comes to memory
attended by gibbering obscenity, peals of joyless laughter, the clang
of iron doors. So I say a name, even if self-bestowed, is better
than a number. In the register of the potter's field I shall soon
have both. What wealth!

Of him who shall find this paper I must beg a little consideration.
It is not the history of my life; the knowledge to write that is