boris barton, a highly regarded disciplinarian, seemed a sad fellow.
he made a good living whipping recalcitrant lordlings into shape.
those who employed him thought he must harbor some secret.
the lads whom he disciplined were sure that he did.
and had many sniggering speculations among themselves on the subject.
but the lords and their offspring were both quite mistaken.
barton waked slowly home in the evenings through the fog.
very occasionally he stopped at a pub for a pint.
he never spoke to anybody, and nobody spoke to him.
he slept eight hours every night, and dreamed seven hours.
he never remembered the dreams, or knew he had them.
the dreams were never of persons he encountered by day.
or of persons he had known in his earlier life.
or of famous persons, or persons recently in the news.
or of familiar animals — cats, dogs, horses, cows, pigs, sheep.
or of lions tigers, leooards, jaguars, elephants, hippos, or dionosaurs.
or of clowns, ballerinas, vampires, werewolves, zombies, or mad scientists
or of being famous himself, or of performing heroic deeds.
very well, then, what, if anything, did he dream of?
i think we both know the answer to that question.
pray, why do you not just tell me the answer?
a woman named jenkins lived across the hall from barton.
unknown to both barton and herself, she shared his dreams .
they never spoke, just nodded, if they passed in the hallway.
barton ate breakfast every day at the same corner cafe.
he said good morning to the waitress - neevr anything else.
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