O Henry

                          The Dream

   [This was the last work of 0 Henry. The Cosmopolitan Magazine had 
ordered it from him and, after his death, the unfinished manuscript 
was found in his room, on his dusty desk.]

   MURRAY DREAMED A DREAM.
   Both psychology and science grope when they would explain to us the 
strange adventures of our immaterial selves when wandering in the 
realm of 'Death's twin brother, Sleep.' This story will not attempt to 
be illuminative; it is no more than a record of Murray's dream. One of 
the most puzzling phases of that strange waking sleep is that dreams 
which seem to cover months or even years may take place within a few 
seconds or minutes.
   Murray was waiting in his cell in the ward of the condemned. An 
electric arc-light in the ceiling of the corridor shone brightly upon 
his table. On a sheet of white paper an ant crawled wildly here and 
there as Murray blocked its way with an envelope. The electrocution 
was set for eight o'clock in the evening. Murray smiled at the antics 
of the wisest of insects.
   There were seven other condemned men in the chamber. Since he had 
been there Murray had seen three taken out to their fate; one gone mad 
and fighting like a wolf caught in a trap; one, no less mad, offering 
up a sanctimonious lip-service to Heaven; the third, a weakling, 
collapsed and strapped to a board. He wondered with what credit to 
himself his own heart, foot, and face would meet his punishment; for 
this was his evening. He thought it must be nearly eight o'clock
   Opposite his own in the two rows of cells was the cage of 
Bonifacio, the Sicilian slayer of his betrothed and of two officers 
who came to arrest him. With him Murray had played checkers many a 
long hour, each calling his move to his unseen opponent across the 
corridor.
   Bonifacio's great booming voice with its indestructible singing 
quality called out:
   'Eh, Meestro Murray, how you feel - all-a right - yes?'
   'All right, Bonifacio,' said Murray steadily, as he allowed the ant 
to crawl upon the envelope and then dumped it gently on the stone 
floor.
   'Dat's good-a, Meestro Murray. Men like us, we must-a die like-a 
men. My time come nex'-a week. AU-a right. Remember, Meestro Murray, I 
beat-a you dat las' game of de check. Maybe we play again some-a time. 
I don'-a know. Maybe we have to call-a de move damn-a loud to play de 
check where dey goin' send us.'
   Bonifacio's hardened philosophy, followed closely by his deafening, 
musical peal of laughter, warmed rather than chilled Murray's numbed 
heart. Yet Bonifacio had until next week to live.
   The cell-dwellers heard the familiar, loud click of the steel bolts 
as the door at the end of the corridor was opened. Three men came to 
Murray s cell and unlocked it. Two were prison guards; the other was 
'Len' - no; that was in the old days; now the Reverend Leonard 
Winston, a friend and neighbour from their barefoot days.
   'I got them to let me take the prison chaplain s place,' he said, 
as -he gave Murray's hand one short, strong grip. In his left hand he 
held a small Bible, with his forefinger marking a page.
   Murray smiled slightly and arranged two or three books and some 
penholders orderly on his small table. He would have spoken, but no 
appropriate words seemed to present themselves to his mind.
   The prisoners had christened this cellhouse, eighty feet long, 
twenty-eight feet wide, Limbo Lane. The regular guard of Limbo Lane, 
an immense, rough, kindly man, drew a pint bottle of whisky from his 
pocket and offered it to Murray, saying:
   'It's the regular thing, you know. All has it who feel like they 
need a bracer. No danger of it becoming a habit with 'em, you see.'
   Murray drank deep into the bottle.
   'That's the boy!' said the guard. 'Just a little nerve tonic, and 
everything goes smooth as silk.' .
   They stepped into the corridor, and each one of the doomed seven 
knew. Limbo Lane is a world on the outside of the world;
but it had learned, when deprived of one or more of the five senses, 
to make another sense supply the deficiency. Each one knew that it was 
nearly eight, and that Murray was to go to the chair at eight. There 
is also in the many Limbo Lanes an aristocracy of crime. The man who 
kills in the open, who beats his enemy or pursuer down, flushed by the 
primitive emotions and the ardour of combat, holds in contempt the 
human rat, the spider, and the snake.
   So, of the seven condemned only three called their farewells to 
Murray as he marched down the corridor between the two guards -
Bonifacio, Marvin, who had killed a guard while trying to escape from 
the prison, and Bassett, the train-robber, who was driven to it 
because the express-messenger wouldn't raise his hands when ordered to 
do so. The remaining four smouldered, silent, in their cells, no doubt 
feeling their social ostracism in Limbo Lane society more keenly than 
they did the memory of their less picturesque offences against the 
law.
   Murray wondered at his own calmness and nearly indifference. In the 
execution room were about twenty men, a congregation made up of prison 
officers, newspaper reporters, and lookers-on who had succeeded

   Here, in the very middle of a sentence, the hand of Death 
interrupted the telling of 0. Henry's last story. He had planned to 
make this story different from his others, the beginning of a new 
series in a style he had not previously attempted. 'I want to show the 
public,' he said, 'that I can write something new - new for me, I mean 
- a story without slang, a straightforward dramatic plot treated in a 
way that will come nearer my idea of real story-writing.' Before 
starting to write the present story he outlined briefly how he 
intended to develop it: Murray, the criminal accused and convicted of 
the brutal murder of his sweetheart - a murder prompted by jealous 
rage - at first faces the death penalty, calm, and, to all outward 
appearances, indifferent to his fate. As he nears the electric chair 
he is overcome by a revulsion of feeling. He is left dazed, stupefied, 
stunned. The entire scene in the death-chamber - the witnesses, the 
spectators, the preparations for execution - become unreal to him. The 
thought flashes through his brain that a terrible mistake is being 
made. Why is he being strapped to the chair? What has he done? What 
crime has he committed? In the few moments while the straps are being 
adjusted a vision comes to him. He dreams a dream. He sees a little 
country cottage, bright, sun-lit, nestling in a bower of flowers. A 
woman is there, and a little child. He speaks with them and finds that 
they are his wife, his child - and the cottage their home. So, after 
all, it is a mistake. Someone has frightfully, irretrievably 
blundered. The accusation, the trial, the conviction, the sentence to 
death in the electric chair - all a dream. He takes his wife in his 
arms and kisses the child. Yes, here is happiness. It was a dream. 
Then - at a sign from the prison warden the fatal current is turned 
on. 
   Murray had dreamed the wrong dream.