And I awoke finding myself in a train, whose engine neither puffed nor smoked—all went by electricity.
And soliloquising, as I rubbed my eyes, the interpretation meant hunting in A.D. 1925. Again I dreamt. I was on a racecourse on a June day, when all was bright and beautiful. Such gorgeous stands, such crowds of fashionable and unfashionable people, such an array of motoring machines lining the course opposite the stands, such order and regularity, no hoarsely-shouting crowd of betting men, no Tattersall’s Enclosure. What did it all mean? The numbers were up in blazing letters of the runners for the first race. Was racing to be carried on in dumb show? I looked again, and beheld people like bees clustering round some low buildings, pigeonholed like enlarged telegraph offices, and numbers and names of horses figured here. There the money flowed in with startling rapidity. In some places only cheques and notes were received, in others gold, in others silver, and all payers had a diminutive numbered receipt. Then came the race. Each horse accurately numbered, and silence no longer reigned. An electric gong proclaimed the start, and thousands of eyes and thousands of voices bore witness to their excitement as the horses swept towards the winning post. What has won? The judge has touched one of a set of electric buttons that are in his box, and the winner’s number is simultaneously shown in half-a-dozen conspicuous places. Soon tinkles a bell on the top of the low building, and thither fly the bees to gather the honey that they have won. But this time they find their gains on the opposite side of the building from which their money was deposited. All the takings have been counted like magic, the winning number sweeps the pool, after due deduction made by way of percentage for much that the country stands in need of.
I noticed, too, that bright liveried messengers plied amongst the stalls and boxes of the stands, doing the work of payment and receipt for the brilliant company sitting there. All this was repeated again and again, until my brain became accustomed to it. Presently, as if to cast a shadow on the gay scene, a red disc appeared on the number-board. “Objection.” The paying-out pigeonholes were closed for that race, and we held our breath; but not for long, since the tribunal of stewards had been chosen beforehand, and unless the subject of the objection had to be adjourned unavoidably, the disc soon proclaimed “Over-ruled” or “Sustained,” and the pay-boxes for that race were opened after the last race of the day.