It was 1:25 dial when the Chicago Pneumatic glided noiselessly into the switching section at Washington. Seizing their grips and coats, the party moved out on to the platform of the sleeper. In a moment the huge train had been raised by the hydraulic lift, and was soon standing in the depot of the capital of the United States.

What a beautiful and fairy-like scene presented itself to Junius Cobb! A depot of magnificent proportions, exquisite workmanship and finish, and possessing a hundred conveniences never dreamed of in his time. The great vaulted roof was set with thousands of electric lights which appeared like brilliant stars in the firmament. Thousands more, in every direction and in every conceivable place, made the vast chamber as bright as the midday sun.

At the barriers of the discharging section a great but orderly crowd was pushing and elbowing its way to a closer position at the gate. All Washington knew that Junius Cobb, the man of two centuries ago, would arrive on that particular train, and a great multitude had congregated to catch a glimpse of him.

As he passed through the gates, while the police pushed back the crowd, he heard their exclamations and remarks:

“There he is!”

“Where?”

“There, with Commissioner Rawolle—on his left.”

“I believe him to be a fake.”

“Oh, he’s a toola!”

“He has never slept a hundred years!”

“Isn’t he a young man to have lived so long?”

“What’s the matter with you? he didn’t live, he just slept.”

“They say he is an officer in the army yet.”

“Well, people will be gulled!”

Thus were the expressions bandied about, and fell upon the ears of Cobb in a harsh and unpleasant manner. He was not flattered by the remarks he heard. Already, it seemed, there was a desire to doubt his identity.

As they neared the center of the hall, someone in the crowd cried: “Junius Cobb! Junius Cobb! Three cheers for Junius Cobb!” And the building rang and echoed back the salutation. Surely this was flattering. His reception, after all, was not without sincerity on the part of many of that vast throng.

A step or two more, and Cobb and Rawolle entered an electric drag, while Lyman bade them good-night, or rather good-morning, and hurried away to report.

Away, and at a rapid gait, sped the drag, its wheels of rubber giving no sound on the elastic pavement of the street, its headlight flashing out a brilliant beam, while ever and anon the driver caused a muffled-toned gong, whose sound was low and musical, to indicate the approach of the carriage.

Looking from the window on his side, Cobb saw to what extent street illumination had progressed in a hundred years. At every fifty feet, on either side, were arc lamps; and this at two in the morning, when those of the shops were extinguished. No gas lights were visible. It was a September morning, but the air was mild and balmy, and it seemed like a morning in early spring. Many people were upon the street, and the electric drags, with their flashing lights and musical gongs, were passing in every direction.

At exactly 1:42 dial the drag stopped under the arch of the entrance to the President’s mansion, and Junius Cobb was received by the chief magistrate of the United States.

Emory D. Craft, President of the United States, was a tall, rotund, and pleasant gentleman of over sixty years of age. His head was massive, and his features square and clean-cut; his hair almost white, and a beard heavy and gray. A man of great perception, executive ability, true kindness, and wisdom, he ruled the greatest nation on earth as a loving father rules his household, with justice and firmness.

As Rawolle and Cobb alighted, he descended the steps, and, advancing, extended his hand to the former, exclaiming:

“I welcome you back, Mr. Rawolle.”

“Thank you, sir; and let me present Mr. Junius Cobb.”

“Mr. Cobb, I cannot express to you the pleasure of this meeting;” and the President shook the young man’s hand heartily. “Be assured that your remarkable, nay, wonderful, case has been uppermost in my mind since first I became aware of your existence.”

“Nor can I, Mr. President, express the gratification I feel in meeting and shaking the hand of the chief magistrate of this great nation, especially when that magistrate is ruling the country a hundred and forty years after my birth.”

Cobb seemed proud of the fact that he, of all the world, could make such a statement.

A few moments later, the President and Cobb were sitting before a glowing, cheerful fire, engaged in earnest conversation.

Mr. Rawolle had been dismissed by the President, and had hastened to the welcome he knew awaited him from his wife and children.

“There, Mr. President,” said Cobb, after a long recital of his life and the facts attending his entombment on Mt. Olympus, “you have the whole story. It is a remarkable one, is it not?”

“Stranger than any fiction I ever read,” he exclaimed. “I can scarcely believe that I behold the intimate friend and contemporary of my great-grandfather in the person of one so young as you.”

He looked at Cobb in wonder and awe.

“And are you the great-grandson of Hugh Craft, my dear old friend of 1887?” cried Cobb with joy, as if a new tie had been found to bind him to this new world.

“Yes; here is our family history.” He arose and went to the cabinet, and returned with a large book. “Read it;” opening it and handing it to the other; “you will there see the history of your friend.” He placed his finger on the page.

Cobb read slowly, and like one in a dream, this page of the history of the dead—this chronicle of the life of his chum and bosom friend.

“First Lieutenant, Captain, Major,” he read, “killed at the battle of Ottawa, August 5, 1917.”

He read it over twice; then suddenly turning to the President, he cried:

“A soldier’s death! A noble ending to a noble man! But what battle is this in which he died?”

“’Tis a long story—too long for to-night,” the President replied; “but, in brief, it was the decisive termination of English power in North America. Canada desired annexation to the United States: England opposed it. British troops were massed on Canadian soil, and she endeavored to prevent the loss of her colonies. War between the Canadians and the mother country followed. We looked on, but offered no assistance. It was not until the cry for freedom became a wail of misery and a piteous appeal for succor, that we interfered. We offered England $500,000,000 for the whole of her possessions in North America. The offer was refused with contempt. Indignation prevailed throughout the United States, and public opinion demanded that assistance be given to the suffering people in their struggle for freedom. Great Britain was notified by joint resolution of Congress of March 22, 1917, to evacuate Canada and all territory between the boundaries of the United States and parallel fifty-one degrees of north latitude. The demand was refused; and on April 2, in full Congress, war was declared against England. For twenty-five years, or from about 1890, this country had been building first-class ships of war, fortifying its coast and putting the nation in a condition to enforce its demands.”

“They hadn’t done much in my time,” broke in Cobb, with a thought of the utterly defenseless condition of the country in 1887.

“No,” continued the President; “but Congress, as you can see by referring to history, in 1890 awoke to the necessity of national protection. In 1917, we could and did enforce our demand. The war was short but terrible. England’s great but slow floating fortresses were no match for our harbor vessels. She never gained entrance to a single port of note, but lost many of her finest ships in the attempt. On land, of course, the effect of our arms was more rapid. An army marched across the border, and the decisive battle of Ottawa was fought. Here was gathered all of England’s force of occupation. On August 5, 1917, her army was utterly routed, and laid down its arms. With the loss of her American army, and the destruction of many of her finest iron-clads, England asked for terms. By the protocol of October 16th, England, in consideration of $250,000,000, relinquished, forever, all possessions on the continent of North America, together with all national property, fortifications, etc.”

“And poor Craft never lived to see the fruits of his nation’s courage,” said Cobb.

“No; he died in the charge of his regiment.” And then, after a pause: “But Hugh Craft still lives. I will introduce him to you to-morrow—do not ask any questions,” as Cobb was about to interrupt him—“to-morrow, or rather to-day; and until then, you must sleep.”

It was 4 dial when Cobb was shown to his apartments.

The next morning Cobb was awakened from a refreshing slumber by a voice singing:

Springing quickly from his bed, he glanced around the room. Again the song and words, and again he looked, but saw no one. Wondering much at the occurrence, he proceeded with his toilet.

At 8:45 he was with the President at breakfast, and had been introduced to Mrs. Craft and her lovely daughter, Mollie.

“Papa says he has taken complete possession of you, Mr. Cobb; and I am so glad, for I want you to tell me so much about those queer old days so long ago;” and she gave him a pleasant smile.

“We are delighted, dear Mr. Cobb, to have you with us. You must consider this your home now, for you have no other, you know;” and good Mrs. Craft spoke in a motherly tone of voice.

“And, of course, you will want a sister;” Mollie Craft cast her eyes down in a shy manner.

“Yes,” said Mr. Craft, with evident pleasure and hope in his voice. “We want you to feel that you have not left all your friends in that distant age. We desire you to consider this your home as long as it shall please you to do so. My wife and I will endeavor to be a mother and a father to you; our daughter, a sister; our son, a brother.”

Mollie Craft was a lovely girl of nineteen years—tall, dark, and robust. She was possessed of a clear skin, sparkling eyes, and beautiful teeth. She was accomplished, and a leader among the young ladies of her set. Her disposition was frank, kind, and retiring. No wonder that Cobb’s eyes often wandered in her direction during that breakfast! It seemed to him that he had never before seen so lovely a face and figure, nor such charming ways as Mollie Craft was mistress of. Yes, there was one face that held just comparison with that before him; there was one figure that matched the symmetry of Mollie Craft; but, alas! she was no more! The queen was dead, but the princess lived! So passed the thoughts in his mind.

Adjourning to the President’s library, for Mr. Craft loved to have his family about him while he smoked his after-breakfast cigar, the conversation proceeded with animation, but always with Cobb as the central figure.

As the words came forth in a free though quiet manner, a young man entered the door, stopped, and then, bowing, exclaimed:

“Pardon me; I did not know that you had company.”

Junius Cobb looked up; then, starting from his seat with a white and perplexed expression, sprang toward the stranger, who, in astonishment, drew half back through the door.

“Hugh Craft! How came you here?”

Recovering himself, the man replied, but with embarrassment:

“Well! that’s very good, indeed! Asking a man what he is doing in his own father’s house!” and he gave a quiet, undecided laugh.

“Mr. Cobb, my son. Hugh, this is Mr. Junius Cobb; you know who he is,” with emphasis on the pronoun.

Junius Cobb rubbed his eyes in confusion. He comprehended the situation at once, and also remembered the President’s words of the night before, when he said, “Hugh Craft still lives.”

Hugh Craft bowed, and moved behind his sister’s chair, and whispered:

“Is he dangerous?”

Cobb, as he turned around, overheard the words, and smiled.

“No, Hugh,” he exclaimed; “not dangerous, but amazed. You are the exact image and counterpart of him who was my dearest and best friend, your—” he hesitated a moment—“your great-great-grandfather.”

Hugh and Mollie looked bewildered, while Mr. Craft’s face wore a smile. The situation was too comical, and all burst into a hearty laugh, Cobb joining the others.

“It is funny, is it not, to hear me talking of having been the friend and chum of this man’s great-great-grandfather?”

A few moments and everything had been fully explained to Hugh, who had been absent a week, and had not heard that Cobb was at the executive mansion.

“Dear brother,” said Mollie, as she put her arms about the young man’s neck and kissed him, “I want you and Mr. Cobb to be brothers; to be to each other as your great-great-grandfather and he were long years ago.”

“Hugh,” said his father, “as you have returned so opportunely, you can take charge of Mr. Cobb—Junius, let us call him, if he does not object—until time for the reception. I have some work to attend to, and I know Junius will excuse me—will you not?” to him.

“Certainly. Do not let my presence interfere with your work; and let me thank you for calling me Junius. I hope you will always continue to do so.”

For an hour these three—Hugh, Junius, and Mollie—sat and chatted. To Cobb it seemed very home-like and most pleasant, and his companions so kind and natural. Hugh was so like that other Hugh, and Mollie so charming and witty, that he scarcely realized, as Hugh looked at his watch and said that they had better dress, that an hour had passed away.

On their way to their rooms, Cobb suddenly said:

“By the bye, Hugh, I wish to ask you a question. This morning, as I was about to arise, I heard someone singing in my room. It was not a very melodious voice, but nevertheless clear and distinct; something like ‘Get up, arise; the hour is late!’ Can you explain it?”

“Nothing easier. It was my old phonograph clock—one I picked up at a pawn-shop one day—a relic of fifty years back;” and he laughed at the thought of his friend’s perplexity at hearing the words ground out of the machine.

“Why did I not think of that?” petulantly. “Why, they were just getting them out in 1887. Do you not have them now?”

“No; we have something better. The electric clock companies of every city run their wires to nearly every house in their towns, and to these wires are attached electric clocks. The resident buys the clock for five dollars, and pays twenty-five cents a month for its use. At the central station, a large clock of the finest make, and absolutely correct in its time, causes all the others to follow its movements. Thus every house has a dial which records correctly and requires no care. It is simple, cheap, and beneficial.”

At the President’s reception, at 11 dial, Junius Cobb was the lion of the hour. Senators gave him every attention; the foreign ambassadors treated him as a man of the greatest distinction; the army and navy laughed, chatted, and petted him.

Just after the introductions of the Senators, Tsu-nan-li, the Minister from China, and dean of the diplomatic corps, approached and bowed low to the President; the latter, also, bowing low, in acknowledgment of the salutation, said:

“O SÖlal obik! DÄlolsÖs obe nuikÖn mani yunik olse kela sava milagik de deil penunols, fuliko, nen dot.”[1]

As the President made the introduction, Cobb gave a slight start at hearing him speak in VolapÜk; then a smile of pleasure came over his face.

Bowing to the young man, the Minister expressed his pleasure at the meeting by saying:

“O SÖl obik lÖfik! Panunob das pebinols bevÜ pedeilÖlsis balmil jÖltum jÖlsevel, kaleda olsik. In ols logob oni, kel pegÖnom fa Confucius e Buddha god, in dat padÄlols denu getÖn luti lifa. Ogivols stimi obe fa visitÖl obi ven plidos-la olsi kÖmÖn.”[2]

Seeing the President about to translate the words of Tsu-nan-li, Cobb quickly interrupted him, and, smiling at his ability to meet at least one of the requirements of this new age, said:

“O SÖl President, ed ols, SÖlal obik! No stunolsÖs lilÖn obi gepÜkÖn in pÜk egebols. Lesevob, Äs jen lefulnik, ut kel pÄbÜsagos Äyelos lemÖdik, das tim ÄkÖmomÖv ven valik nets kulik ÄcÄlomsÖv volapÜki. KlÖdÖl das et del no Äbinom fago, Ästudob at pÜk, ed adelo logob bizugi osa.”[3]

An expression of astonishment overspread the faces of the other two gentlemen, and the President exclaimed, gleefully:

“Good enough, Cobb! There’s one thing of the past equal to the present.”

The others claiming attention, no more was said, and the throng of visitors met, were introduced to and passed the President and Junius Cobb.

A little later a party of officers were talking to Cobb near the grand stairway. Speculation was rife as to what his position in the army would be, knowing that he had been dropped for desertion years ago. The discussion was animated, though Cobb himself took no active part in it.

“Ah! Cobb, my boy,” and a tall young man, in the full regimentals of a captain in the Second Cavalry—Cobb’s old regiment—came forward and familiarly slapped him on the shoulder:

“I have been looking for you. Hugh informs me that you will undoubtedly be restored to your rank in the army; in fact, he says that they can’t help giving you your commission again.”

“Ah!” from Cobb, as he looked the other in the face.

“Yes,” smiling. “And you will be my lieutenant, for I command your old troop of the Second. You will be a bÖd seledik (rare bird) to us in the Second, and, as I am ordered to join my regiment on the 10th of next month, I intend applying to have you ordered back with me.”

Several smiled at the young captain’s cool impudence, but Cobb simply bowed in recognition of the other’s desire for his company to his regiment.

Captain Hathaway, of the Second Cavalry, was twenty-eight years of age, tall in stature, slight in build, and wearing a little, light mustache. With a glass in his eye, and a voice which sounded low and sweet, he was, with all his known cool impudence, a right clever fellow. But he had taken a dislike to Junius Cobb—and why?

“Yes, Mr. Cobb,” taking up the army style of address to lieutenants, “I fear you will have to give up your good times here and join me. Of course they cannot refuse my request,” with a new adjustment of his eyeglass.

“Mr. Hathaway—”

“Captain, sir; Captain Hathaway. You forget you are addressing your troop commander;” with dignity.

A flush overspread Cobb’s face, and he bit his lip to keep from replying in hot terms to this uncalled-for insolence.

“Captain Hathaway, you will join your regiment before the 10th, and I will not be with you. Good morning.” He turned on his heel and moved toward a group near the President.

With a laugh at the blank and crushed expression of the young Captain, the others sauntered away.

“Damme! but that’s cool. Going to order his Captain to his regiment, eh! Going to get me out of the way and take my girl. Well, I guess not!” and he, too, moved off.

At lunch, after the reception and departure of the guests, Cobb laughingly referred to the little incident of the morning. The President expressed his disapprobation of the Captain’s behavior, and told Cobb that he would give the young man a lesson in politeness.

According to their programme, the office of the Secretary of War was visited at 13:30 dial, and Cobb was introduced to Mr. Fowler, the urbane but quick-spoken Secretary. Here he learned much concerning himself, and a great deal in regard to the state of the nation for purposes of offense and defense.

“Yes,” continued the Secretary, in answer to a question from Cobb, “your status has been investigated, and it is found that you were dropped from the army, as a deserter, December 1, 1904, under the provisions of section 1,229, Revised Statutes. But when the wonderful facts attending your return to life, and the existence and tenor of your leave of absence, given in 1887, had been fully laid before the Supreme Court, sitting in bank, yesterday, a decree was formulated that you have never been out of service—that is, legally. You, therefore, Mr. Cobb, revert back to your status as a Lieutenant in the Second Cavalry.”

Cobb meditatively admitted that perhaps Captain Hathaway would, after all, take him back to the regiment on the 10th of the following month.

“But,” and the Secretary looked inquiringly at the President, who nodded assent, “you would have been the ranking Major in the cavalry arm in 1918, the year you would have retired for age, according to the law at that date.”

“Yes, you are quite right, Mr. Secretary, I would have been a Major; but I never expected to have been the senior. Promotion at that time was slow beyond measure—stagnated. Old men with grown-up families were still Lieutenants, while the majority of Captains were old, rheumatic, and unable to perform their duty. Lieutenants did all the work.” Cobb seemed to revert back in disgust at the state of promotion in 1887.

“As you would have been retired as the ranking Major,” slowly continued the Secretary, paying no attention to Cobb’s remarks, but with a pleasant air at the news he was about to communicate, “the President has been guided by a sense of the justice due you, and has nominated you to the Senate as such, to rank at the head of the list. Further, as a vacancy exists in the grade of Lieutenant-Colonel, your promotion to that rank follows as a natural course. The Senate will confirm the nomination at 16 dial. Allow me, Colonel Cobb, to congratulate you,” and the good old man clasped the hand of the new Lieutenant-Colonel; nor was the President slow in his congratulations. Both seemed to have taken a special interest in Cobb.

He, in his turn, expressed his sincere thanks for their kindness to him, and was highly elated at the good fortune attending his new life.

“By the records,” continued Mr. Fowler, “you are thirty-three years of age, for you entered the cataleptic state at that age; and it has been decided that the period of your inanimation shall not in any manner be counted against you. A Lieutenant-Colonel at thirty-three, the youngest in the army, you will one day command the army of the United States.” And he smiled kindly, while the President looked admiringly upon his protÉgÉ.

Then, for an hour, the Secretary gave Colonel Cobb a brief history of the army during the hundred and odd years which had passed.

“We have, to-day,” said he, “a population of over 500,000,000 of people, occupying sixty-eight States and nine Territories, covering the whole of North America from the Isthmus of Panama to the Arctic, and from the Pacific to the Atlantic Ocean.”

“This is a vast and wonderful increase since the census of 1880,” exclaimed Cobb. “Why, I remember, in 1887, that the most sanguine statistician estimated only 67,000,000 for the next census, that of 1890.”

“True,” returned the Secretary. “That was above the exact figure; if I remember correctly, it was only 64,987,504. But even that population was a trifle more than twenty-five per cent. increase upon the census of 1880. The ratio of increase since we were a nation of only 3,000,000, averaged about thirty per cent. until the year 1900. In 1910 it fell to twenty-two per cent., but the next census, that of 1920, showed an increase of thirty-four per cent. The reason for this great increase is found in the fact that in 1915 the United States acquired Mexico and all Central America, with its population of over 20,000,000 souls, and in 1917, after the conquest, the whole of British America, with 10,000,000 more. Our population was, by the census of 1920—counting in 30,000,000 people acquired—137,000,000. The increase since 1890 has averaged only 18.5 per cent, every ten years, or less than two per cent. a year.”

“And is not the country somewhat crowded by this great mass of people?” inquired Cobb.

“By no means; there is room for double the number—yes, treble as many. The great States of Slave, Saskatchewan, Manitoba, Assiniboia, and west of the isothermal line of thirty-eight degrees are teeming with people engaged in agriculture.”

“What is the strength of the army required to protect the country from internal violence, and for a cadre of a full army?” asked Cobb.

“Our army consists of 148,000 men only, comprising 70,000 infantry, 28,000 cavalry, and 50,000 artillery. The maintenance and distribution of this force is very different from what it was during the years when the country was new and sparsely inhabited. The artillery is along the sea-board, and is a full-paid army. The enlisted portion serve for three years at a time, and are paid at a fixed rate of $20 per month for the privates. The infantry and cavalry are distributed among the States; each State and the Territories of North and South Alaska, and Indian, has one regiment of infantry and a battalion of cavalry (400). The posts are near the great centers of the States, and from them the troops can be quickly transported to the scene of any disturbance. Each governor has authority to order out his State garrison for the preservation of life or property, or to quell riot or disorder in his State. The posts are large and handsome, and with fine and sufficient quarters for officers and men. The social standing of the soldier is equal to that of the citizen, except that, as a soldier, full and implicit obedience to his officers is required and maintained. The food is excellent, and well cooked and served; the uniform is of the best material. Now, Colonel, I will explain the system: The infantry and cavalry posts are schools for the instruction of the youth of the country. The period of service is three years, and the strength of each garrison strictly maintained. The regiments are recruited wholly from the State they are in, and do not leave that State to garrison other posts. This applies only to the enlisted portion of the army; the officers hold life positions, and are promoted lineally in their own branch of the service. They are moved from station to station every three years, but never returning to a station at which they had served before. The pay of the army of instruction, or ‘Inland Army,’ as it is named, is $5 per month per man, regardless of grade, and $100 upon discharge after three years of faithful service. Every year the State furnishes 500 young men who have passed the physical examination, and they are sworn into the service of the United States.”

“But how are these men found? Do they voluntarily enlist?” broke in Cobb.

“Not all, though many do, in order to get their service in. Each State keeps a complete record of every male in its territory—his age, occupation, and physical condition. From a list of all those between twenty-one and twenty-four years of age, is selected, by chance, the yearly quota for military service, less the number of voluntary enlistments; and no one so selected can avoid the three years’ service at the State post; nor do they try, I might add, for no excuse but physical incapacity will avail to free them from this duty to the State and Union. From every walk in life they come—the rich, the poor, the worker and the young man of leisure. If a son is the only support of a family, the State supplies a substitute. Except in time of war, they are never called upon again for military service. This is what makes the soldier the equal of the civilian. If a name is once selected and the man does not report, being at the time a resident of the State, he is declared a deserter, and punished as such. To their officers these men are obedient and respectful; with the civilian, they are sons of the State, and their duty honorable in the extreme. Desertion is almost unknown; but when it does occur, the offender receives the fixed punishment of twenty years in the government island prison.”

“And the government pays these men?” asked Cobb.

“No; the pay proper and subsistence is paid by the State, but everything else is furnished by the government.”

“And their duties, what are they?”

“They are taught all the duties of a soldier; they make marches from point to point, and diffuse a military feeling among the people; they learn to ride, to use their arms, and to become able, if the time occurs, to impart this instruction to others. They are a guard against interior violence in the State, and their presence tends to keep alive that little spark of military ardor which should never be allowed to die, even in a country deemed ever so secure from foreign invasion.”

“A system both great and useful!” exclaimed Cobb. “But how are the artillery regiments kept full?”

“By enlistment only. The applications far exceed the demands. The majority come from the Inland Army, from those who are poor and from those who have taken a fancy to a military life.”

“And the officers—how are they appointed?”

“They are taken from the non-commissioned officers who have completed their three years’ service and are desirous of becoming officers. From the number of non-commissioned officers of each regiment competing, the five who lead in the examinations are sent to the United States military school and pursue a three years’ course of study. From this class, in the order of their standing, are filled the vacancies existing on New-Year’s-Day of each year, the remainder of the class being discharged.”

“Will you tell me what kind of arms are now used?” asked Cobb.

“For infantry, the service rifle and milag cartridge; for cavalry the same, but shorter and lighter, besides a pistol using the milag cartridge of calibre 35. The artillery use nothing but the heavy guns, which are of different styles and for different purposes. Some are for lipthalene, others for lipthalene and meteorite, and still others using meteorite alone.”

“What! did I understand you to say meteorite?” and Cobb looked at the Secretary with a surprised and earnest expression, while his hand nervously grasped the back of his chair.

“Yes; certainly. Is there anything strange in the name, that you should look at me so doubtingly?”

“No; I suppose not,” settling back in his chair.

“But you appeared very much surprised.”

“Yes?”

“Yes; have you seen this explosive? But no; you could not have seen it. It did not come to the notice of the government until after your time.”

“Will you show me one of these milag cartridges?”

“Certainly.”

He rang a bell and ordered a box of milag cartridges sent to him in the office. When the Secretary had received them, he gave one to Cobb, saying:

“This small bullet does not look much like a cartridge, does it?”

Cobb took it and carefully examined it.

It was precisely similar to those he had sent to Washington in 1887. Smiling to himself, he turned his eyes first upon the President and then upon the Secretary.

“When did you say these were invented?” he asked, in an unconcerned manner.

“I can soon tell you.”

Rising and taking a book from the shelf, he quickly found the history of the milag cartridge, and read:

“‘Milag cartridge; from the VolapÜk word milag, “wonderful.” A cartridge using meteorite as an explosive; usual charge for 40 calibre, one and one-third grains; initial velocity, 3,562; range, four miles. Meteorite was discovered in 1899, and the formula sold to the government by John Otis, chief clerk to the Chief of Ordnance.’”

“Chief of Ordnance?” broke in Cobb, quickly.

“Yes; Chief of Ordnance. But have you read this?”

“No, sir.”

“But there certainly is some mystery here!” exclaimed the President, highly interested in the conversation.

Cobb took his penknife from his pocket, and slowly opening it, said:

“If I cut this black cement in the base of the bullet, I come to the meteorite; am I correct?”

“Yes.”

“And it is white.” And he cut the cement carefully away and disclosed the little disc of fulminate and the white explosive surrounding it.

“Strange!” cried both of the others together, surprised that he should know the color of an explosive invented after his time.

“Have you any nitric acid?” asked Cobb.

“Yes; here is a little,” and Secretary Fowler handed him a small bottle containing the nitric acid used in testing at the War Department.

Dipping a twisted paper into the liquid, Cobb let fall a single drop of the acid on the explosive in the bullet; then moving toward the window, which he threw open, he struck a match and said:

“If I understand this meteorite, it will, upon the application of flame, dissipate itself in vapor, but not explode.”

“Hold, Colonel!” cried Mr. Fowler, in great alarm, as he and the President drew back. “It will explode and tear your hand into pieces.”

It was too late. Holding his hand containing the bullet well out through the window, he touched the flame to the cartridge. A slight flash from the fulminate followed, and then the meteorite disappeared in a colorless gas. Holding aloft the empty bullet, he exultingly cried:

“Was I not right when I claimed a knowledge of this explosive?”

Then Junius Cobb explained how he had discovered this compound; how he had transmitted it to the Chief of Ordnance in 1887, and the restrictions he had placed upon that office regarding the sealed packet containing the formula. Time passed, and he had been dropped for desertion, but the sealed packet still remained in the office of the Chief of Ordnance. It had been opened, and a subordinate in that office had stolen his secret, sold it to the government, and reaped immense reward and honor. But Cobb had no ill-feeling against the man; he had died long years ago; and what did this theft avail him at that moment?

“You are a wonderful man, my dear Colonel; and I believe that, in the dim past, you conceived the idea of many of our greatest inventions of to-day.”

President Craft arose from his seat as he spoke.

Thanking Secretary Fowler for his kindness, Cobb turned to the President and asked:

“Is it time to take our departure?”

“Yes, Colonel.” Then, turning to the Secretary, he said: “By the way, Mr. Fowler, be so kind as to have an order made out directing Captain Hathaway, Second Cavalry, to report to Colonel Cobb to-night for orders; send it at once.”

“Sir, I will attend to it immediately.”

“Then, Mr. Fowler, we will say good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon, gentlemen;” and then to Cobb: “Come and see me, Colonel, whenever you feel inclined.”

In fifteen minutes they were back at the executive mansion.

After partaking of a cup of coffee, as was the President’s custom at that hour, they entered the drag again, and were rapidly propelled toward the Capitol.

Cobb noticed the handsome exterior of the buildings, their beautiful architecture and harmonious coloring.

Pennsylvania Avenue was, indeed, a beautiful thoroughfare. Its buildings were large and grand; great hotels, clubs, bazars, churches, and theatres were thrown together in one complex but magnificent order. Over the sidewalk, on either side, and also covering the cross-streets, was a glass canopy supported by pillars of the same material, handsomely carved and finished. The windows and doors were grand in their size; and what seemed strange and dangerous to Cobb, no sash was to be observed; nothing but great panes of glass, some white and clear, others of various hues.

The streets and walks were as clean as a parlor floor, and no obstructions were to be seen upon them. The pavement was of a soft gray tint, and like a felt blanket in its appearance. The sidewalks were laid in tessellated work of all the hues of the solar spectrum. Statues and works of art were everywhere observable. Great trees ranged on either side, while beautiful plants and green grass plats surrounded many of the buildings.

As the rays of the sun in the west fell upon the buildings, they were reflected back to the opposite side of the street, again and again reflected, and the eye of Cobb beheld the parallel lines of Pennsylvania Avenue adorned with millions of sparkling, dancing lights, meeting at the farther end in one great diamond whose lustre could almost compare with the sun itself.

Ah! what a grand sight!—worthy of a life of inanimation for a thousand years. Cobb feasted his eyes on the beauty of the scene. Lost in the ecstasy of the moment, he was rudely awakened to a sense of the reality by the President remarking:

“It is a grand sight, is it not?”

“Yes! yes, indeed! Grand beyond expression!”

“This street, Colonel Cobb, is said to be the handsomest in the world.”

“I can well believe it! I cannot conceive of one that could be more beautiful.”

“And yet, Colonel, it is all glass.”

“Glass?”

“Yes; plain, cheap, common glass.”

“You mystify me! You do not mean to tell me that these magnificent buildings are built of glass?”

“The buildings, walks, streets, and nearly everything visible to your eye is of glass.”

President Craft enjoyed the look of amazement and incredulity which overspread the other’s face.

“Surely you are jesting with me! Glass is no substance for any of these purposes.”

“Remember,” slowly, “you are in the year 2000. That which was impossible, unheard of, to you in 1887, may be possible and common with us to-day.”

“True! I find I must accept as possible every theory and proposition advanced, until it is, by undeniable evidence, totally disproved. But blame me not if doubt sometimes arises. Will you stop the drag a moment?”

“Certainly,” was the puzzled answer.

Turning his head to the driver in the rear, he ordered the drag stopped at the curb.

In front of the entrance to the Dom KanitÖl Legletik (Grand Opera House), by the side of two tall and elaborately carved pillars covered with fine and thread-like filigree work, the drag came to a standstill. Without a word of explanation, Cobb sprang from his seat, walked up to the nearest pillar and dashed the heel of his boot against a beautiful rose of pure white. A look of triumph came into his eyes. They might make it to appear like glass, but it was not glass! The beautiful rose lay crushed against its stem, its delicate petals bent and twisted, and its leaves flattened together.

The President comprehended the young man’s motive, and smiled. As Cobb again entered the drag, the President said, but kindly:

“You have destroyed that beautiful glass rose, and because you doubted me.”

“Blame me not for doubting, kind sir, nor blame me for investigating. Without investigation we could never arrive at a certain knowledge of the truth or falsity of any proposition.”

“And you have investigated?”

“Yes.”

“And proved—”

“That glass is not the component part of that pillar,” with confidence.

“One word will dispel that illusion.” Mr. Craft spoke very deliberately.

“Speak it, then, I pray you,” with greater astonishment than ever.

“Malleability!”

Like a flash of lightning, the conviction of the truth of the President’s words fell upon the doubting man’s mind. Malleable glass! that ignis-fatuus which had caused men’s minds to turn from reason to insanity; had caused chemists and philosophers throughout the known world to struggle for years and years, and finally go down to their graves with their hopes unfulfilled; that art which was said to have been known in the third century, during the reign of Tiburon—had been again discovered and made known to mankind.

“And is all of this of malleable glass?” still with wonder.

“All. The art has been known for over fifty years. It is common glass, composed of silica, lime, barytes, etc., to which is added nitrate of zesÜd and coloring matter. It is cheaper than wood or any of the metals, is about the weight of copper, and has its strength and malleability. It is made into every conceivable form and shape, and has almost entirely taken the place of the cheaper metals where temper and extreme rigor are not desired. It never tarnishes, decays, or breaks. When exposed to the inclemencies of the weather, it is as bright to-day as it was yesterday, or years ago.”

Wonderful, indeed, were the inventions of the twentieth century!

At 16:5 dial the President’s electric drag glided evenly and noiselessly out of Pennsylvania Avenue, rounded the corner, and stopped at the grand entrance to the Dom Lon, or Capitol, of the United States.

An hour was passed in visiting the three houses of Congress, and Cobb carefully noted the working of the national legislature.

On the way home, the President said:

“There is a Senate of 136 members, or two from each State, presided over by the First Vice-President; two lower houses of 400 and 280 members, respectively, presided over by the Second and Third Vice-Presidents. The Smadom, or lower house, is that body in which are introduced all bills of a private nature whatsoever—such as claims or appeals for money, position, justice, rights and franchises. If approved in this house they go to the Senate, and are usually approved by that body. In the Gledom, or upper house, originate all bills for the good of the nation at large. The system of committees, as of old, is a component part of the machinery of this house. The functions of the Senate, with the restrictions imposed upon it by the creation of a third house, have undergone few changes since your time.”

“Are there any changes in the method of electing Senators, Representatives, and chief magistrate?”

“Yes; the President’s term of office is five years, taking office on New-Year’s-Day of every year divisible by five without a remainder—that is, it commenced in 1940. In the October of the year preceding the taking of office, the governors of all the States assemble at a designated place and nominate four candidates for each office. The two houses of Representatives meet on the first day of November, and proceed to elect, from the nominees, the President and Vice-Presidents.”

“Then, I take it that a Republican house would surely elect a Republican, and vice versa?” said Cobb.

“There is no Republican or Democratic party, nor any two parties, as formerly. One party, the American, rules this country. No diversity of opinion exists as regards the welfare of the nation. No policy from the candidates for the Presidency is called for, or expected. To-day there are no great questions to split the nation with contention.”

“But may not the choice of the people be defeated, where the election is in the hands of so few?”

“Again experience teaches that you are wrong. Under the old system the people had a choice between two men; now the nation has a choice from four men. The extent and population of the country being so enormous, individual voting would necessitate long and arduous work in counting and verifying the vote. Were the two distinct parties in the field, our method might—mind you, I say might—work disadvantageously to one party or the other. The fairness of the system now in vogue consists in the celerity of the election after nomination, and in the number of nominees. No man can tell beforehand upon whom will fall the nominations given by sixty-eight men, high in social and civil standing, and who come together from every part of this great country—men who are, as a rule, unacquainted with one another. Even if collusion brought about a certain nomination, who could tell that that nominee would be elected by the two houses? The nomination takes place October first, and certified copies, signed by every governor present, though he may have voted against the nominee, are delivered by the three governors oldest in years to each of the three Vice-Presidents of the United States. On the first day of November the names are presented, and the balloting commences in both houses simultaneously, and continues until an election is completed by that house. The record is sent to the Senate, and that body counts and verifies the vote of the two houses, and announces the result.”

“Very simple, after all,” remarked Cobb. “But has it always worked well?”

“Perfectly.”

“How long have you been in office, Mr. President?”

“Since last New-Year’s-Day.”

“Will you get the nomination again, do you think?”

“No; assuredly not. One of the most strictly followed laws of the United States is that no man can hold the same elective office twice. This law applies to all national and State offices, but not to others below that dignity.”

“Does this law not tend to deprive the State and nation of the services of tried and capable men?”

“Colonel, this nation is great; vast. There are thousands upon thousands of men fully as capable as those in office, ready to take their turn.”

“And federal appointments, the patronage of the party, as it was formerly called—how are they made?”

“Wholly upon competitive examination; not in scientific branches of learning, but upon the duties required, together with a common-school education.”

“And the term of office?”

“In many positions it is during active life; in others for ten years, or less periods. But in all cases the period is known, and removals never take place without cause having been given by the incumbent: this cause is never political.”

“I see we are at the door,” reluctantly said Cobb, as the drag came to a standstill before the entrance to the executive mansion, “so will ask you no more questions to-day—but the subject is one of great interest to me.”

After dinner, as Cobb and Hugh were lounging about and smoking their cigars, the President came into the room and handed the former the evening paper, remarking:

“You have not seen a paper to-day. Here is the American: you will find all the news in it.”

Moving toward the door, the President turned around, and added:

“By the bye, Junius, Captain Hathaway will report to you this evening for orders; dispose of him as you please,” and he passed out into the hall.

“Don’t mind me, Junius,” said Hugh; “read your paper. I’ll look at the society news in it—there is no such nonsense in yours,” drawing out the “Washington Report” from his pocket.