She withdrew a curious long key from her reticule, and thrust it up the automaton’s left nostril. She turned it smartly. There was a click, and she withdrew the key. Dick half-expected to see the figure shiver with disgust, and clutch his nose; but he only began to breathe, or rather to go through the motions of breathing.
“Watch this, now,” said Madame Rigby, extending her hand in front of the automaton. She waved it from side to side; the figure turned its head as though following her movement with its eyes. Loudly and distinctly she said: “Your name, sir?”
The automaton blinked once, and when it opened its mouth Dick clearly heard the hiss of air being drawn in; the next moment a voice sounded, proceeding presumably from some bellows and reed mechanism in the chest.
“Jack Rigby, at your service,” said the thing, moving its lips in flawless imitation of the motions of speech. For all his delight, Dick felt a chill run down his spine. The more so when Madame Rigby laughed, triumphant, and the automaton drew its lips back from its teeth in a smile, as though politely sharing in the jest.
“Ha, ha, ha!” it said. “Very good.”
“Now, my boy,” said Madame Rigby, “step down!”
Jack Rigby, to use his own name, bent his head as though to judge the distance from the cabinet to the floor. Then with only the slightest unsteadiness, he stepped down from the cabinet.
Dick staggered backward, and collapsed in a dead faint.
When he came to himself again, Madame Rigby was forcing a stinging liquid down his throat. For a moment he had the dreadful fancy she had transformed him into an automaton, and was filling him with fuel; but it was only brandy. Madame Rigby was laughing again, and Jack was smiling and nodding along.
“Well, aren’t you the delicate lily!” she said. “Does my boy frighten you?
“Nothing of the kind!” insisted Dick, sitting up hastily. “I-it’s a shock, that’s all; I never expected him to do anything like that. Why, it’s like witchcraft!”
“Witchcraft?” Madame Rigby looked scornful. “Well, I should think not! This is the year 1900, after all, young man. There’s no hocus-pocus nonsense to my Jack; just hard work and practical engineering. Haven’t I labored at my trade these twenty years, and learned from all the clockmakers and dollmakers and mechanics in Bavaria and Paris? Jacky proceeds out of all they’ve done, only I’ve gone them all one better. Me! Eudora Rigby.”
“But… this isn’t like a clock,” said Dick, shivering. “You’ve made a thing that thinks like a man.”
“Not a bit of it,” said Madame Rigby. “Any more than a music box really sings, or a loom makes up its pattern as it goes along. He’s got leaves of metal in him, you see, thousands of ’em, tiny, and each one has a pattern of holes in it that tells him something to do. And inside those ears there’s mechanism that takes sounds and reads ’em as patterns. When it picks up a pattern it knows, why, it matches it up to one of its own, and gives him something to do in reply.”
“I think I see,” said Dick. “Didn’t it take a long while for you to punch all those little patterns, though?”
“Ages,” Madame Rigby admitted. “That was why I hired on that boy from the Polytechnic; I had too much to do. He sat there for two solid years, working out all the commands.”
“Well, this beats anything I’ve ever seen,” said Dick. “Yes, sir! That is to say, yes, ma’am.”
“Mind him a moment,” said Madame Rigby, going into her private chambers. “I’ll go fetch him some britches.”
Dick, much to his consternation, was left alone with Jack. He put on as bold a face as he could muster, and said loudly:
“Say! Think we’ll get any rain?”
Jack turned his head slightly when Dick spoke, as though to better hear him. He drew breath, smiled and said:
“Perhaps.”
“But there isn’t a cloud in the sky!”
“That’s true.”
“I might as well have said, do you reckon we’ll get ice and snow in July!”
“Tell me what you think.”
“He’s got an empty phrase to suit any occasion,” said Madame Rigby, returning with a suit of men’s clothing under her arm. “Help me get him dressed, now.”
This proved much easier than dressing the other automata in the exhibit, for Jack, while unable to respond to an order as complex as Dress yourself, was nonetheless able to lift or extend his limbs when told to, and could follow a specific order such as Button your shirt. Presently he stood, fully clothed, in a suit of smart modern cut; the waistcoat he wore with the suit, however, was out of fashion. Twenty years ago it had been the latest thing, to be sure, and its fancy embroidery was still bright.
“Ma’am, if you don’t mind my saying so, this fellow’s going to make you millions,” said Dick in awe.
“Think so? Maybe,” said Madame Rigby. “Say, did you mail those invitations to the exhibition, like I told you?”
“I sure did, ma’am,” said Dick. “Did that first thing Monday morning.”
“Including the one to Congressman Gookin?”
“Yes indeed, ma’am. I think he’s already replied; it came in the morning post, but I haven’t had time to look through your correspondence today—”
Madame Rigby hurried to the table by the door, where her unopened mail sat in a basket. She picked up the letters and shuffled through them. One in particular she pulled out, and held up to the gaslight.
“That’s not his hand,” she said, frowning.
“I guess he has a secretary, ma’am,” said Dick.
“Oh! Sure he would, nowadays,” said Madame Rigby. She tore open the envelope and held up the letter, peering at it. Then she whooped with laughter. Jack smiled again and said, “Ha, ha ha!”
“What’s he say, ma’am?” said Dick, edging away from Jack.
“He says he’ll come!” cried Madame Rigby. “I knew he would. I asked him whether he might oblige us by saying a few words when the exhibition’s opened. He wouldn’t pass up a chance to stump for votes, not Fremont T. Gookin. The old son of a bitch is running for re-election, see?”
Dick winced at her language. “Yes, ma’am. I saw plenty of his banners up in Portsmouth Square, when I was posting handbills.”
Jack said, “You don’t say!”
“Listen to my pretty boy!” Madame Rigby said. “Well, this calls for a celebration. Come on, Dick; I’ll treat you to dinner at the Poodle Dog.” She grabbed up her hat and cape once more.
“What about him?” inquired Dick, turning out the lights.
“Why, he’ll stand guard; he never complains, my Jacky,” said Madame Rigby.
On Saturday morning, the long, sandy drive below Cliff House was crowded with buckboards and carriages. Above, a steady stream of people was dismounting from the streetcars that came and went. They milled about before the main entrance, where a sign had been strung up before the door:
Shortly before noon an impressive object came rattling up the Great Ocean Highway. It resembled a stagecoach, but was notable in that no horses galloped before it. The coachman, wearing goggles and a cap, drove from a small compartment in the front of the carriage; two men perched on the upper seats at the back, clutching their hats as the automobile accelerated to take the hill at a run. Within could be seen an imposing-looking gentleman of middle age, with a young lady seated beside him.
Many in the assembled crowd assumed this to be Mr. Rigby, and applauded at his grand arrival. No sooner had the automobile pulled up before the entrance, however, than they were disabused of this notion; for the two men behind the coach leaped down, bawling:
“Re-elect Congressman Fremont T. Gookin!”
One of them reached down and withdrew a bundle of painted canvas, and they hurried in through the arches; a moment later they could be glimpsed above on the outer deck, where they spread out a banner reading: