Page:Weird Tales Volume 26 Number 01 (1935-07).djvu/31
"The man that just went out the door!" the dishwasher gasped. "That waiter! Who is he?"
"Number 34," growled the youngster, rubbing his shoulder.
"But his name! What's his name?"
"I don't know. He just started working here this morning"
The man with the artificial hand ran toward the service door, opened it and looked up and down the street.
There was no sign of the figure in the wine-red club livery.
The dishwasher went back to his big machine, eyes cloudy and troubled.
"What's eating you?" said the younger man.
"That waiter—number 34," replied the dishwasher slowly. "His face looked familiar. Looked like a friend of mine that used to be a waiter here—same number, 34, too—back in 1916 when you were still a baby. But it couldn't have been him."
"Why not?" shrugged his assistant "Guys do come back, sometimes, to work at places they worked in a long time ago."
"Not this man," said the dishwasher. "He died at Verdun in 1918."
Why Was
My Dream So Real?
By JUNE POWER REILLY
Why was the dream I had last night so real?
Why should I wake with startled breath, a scream
Upon my lips? For I could shuddering feel
The hot flames lick my cheeks. If it were dream
Why should I have the old remembered pain?
Where came the banners? where the soldiered place?
Where have I known the stake and jeers that rain
Like pointed stones? where have I known disgrace?
Ah, dreams are made of things so misty, more
Like webs of spiders, or a touch of thought;
But this was something deep, an opened door
That opened half-way, then the hinges caught.
When just about to hear them shout my name
I woke, with agony of burning flame.