As he told us, just as he was able to leave his body and gaze upon it lying in the jacket on the cell floor, so could he leave the prison, and, in the present, revisit San Francisco and see what was occurring.
In this manner he had visited his mother twice, both times finding her asleep.
In this spirit-roving he said he had no power over material things.
He could not open or close a door, move any object, make a noise, nor manifest his presence.
On the other hand, material things had no power over him.
Walls and doors were not obstacles.
The entity, or the real thing that was he, was thought, spirit.
“The grocery store on the corner, half a block from where mother lived, changed hands,” he told us. “I knew it by the different sign over the place.
I had to wait six months after that before I could write my first letter, but when I did I asked mother about it.
And she said yes, it had changed.”
“Did you read that grocery sign?” Jake Oppenheimer asked.
“Sure thing I did,” was Morrell’s response. “Or how could I have known it?”
“All right,” rapped Oppenheimer the unbelieving. “You can prove it easy.
Some time, when they shift some decent guards on us that will give us a peep at a newspaper, you get yourself thrown into the jacket, climb out of your body, and sashay down to little old ’Frisco.
Slide up to Third and Market just about two or three a.m. when they are running the morning papers off the press.
Read the latest news.
Then make a swift sneak for San Quentin, get here before the newspaper tug crosses the bay, and tell me what you read.
Then we’ll wait and get a morning paper, when it comes in, from a guard.
Then, if what you told me is in that paper, I am with you to a fare-you-well.”
It was a good test.
I could not but agree with Oppenheimer that such a proof would be absolute.
Morrell said he would take it up some time, but that he disliked to such an extent the process of leaving his body that he would not make the attempt until such time that his suffering in the jacket became too extreme to be borne.
“That is the way with all of them—won’t come across with the goods,” was Oppenheimer’s criticism. “My mother believed in spirits.
When I was a kid she was always seeing them and talking with them and getting advice from them.
But she never come across with any goods from them.
The spirits couldn’t tell her where the old man could nail a job or find a gold-mine or mark an eight-spot in Chinese lottery.
Not on your life.
The bunk they told her was that the old man’s uncle had had a goitre, or that the old man’s grandfather had died of galloping consumption, or that we were going to move house inside four months, which last was dead easy, seeing as we moved on an average of six times a year.”
I think, had Oppenheimer had the opportunity for thorough education, he would have made a Marinetti or a Haeckel.
He was an earth-man in his devotion to the irrefragable fact, and his logic was admirable though frosty.
“You’ve got to show me,” was the ground rule by which he considered all things.
He lacked the slightest iota of faith.
This was what Morrell had pointed out.
Lack of faith had prevented Oppenheimer from succeeding in achieving the little death in the jacket.
You will see, my reader, that it was not all hopelessly bad in solitary.
Given three minds such as ours, there was much with which to while away the time.
It might well be that we kept one another from insanity, although I must admit that Oppenheimer rotted five years in solitary entirely by himself, ere Morrell joined him, and yet had remained sane.
On the other hand, do not make the mistake of thinking that life in solitary was one wild orgy of blithe communion and exhilarating psychological research.
We had much and terrible pain.
Our guards were brutes—your hang-dogs, citizen. Our surroundings were vile.
Our food was filthy, monotonous, innutritious.
Only men, by force of will, could live on so unbalanced a ration.
I know that our prize cattle, pigs, and sheep on the University Demonstration Farm at Davis would have faded away and died had they received no more scientifically balanced a ration than what we received.
We had no books to read.
Our very knuckle-talk was a violation of the rules.
The world, so far as we were concerned, practically did not exist.
It was more a ghost-world.
Oppenheimer, for instance, had never seen an automobile or a motor-cycle.
News did occasionally filter in—but such dim, long-after-the-event, unreal news.
Oppenheimer told me he had not learned of the Russo-Japanese war until two years after it was over.