still persisted in trying to wring from me the hiding-place of the
non-existent dynamite. Toward the last he was badly shaken by Jake

Oppenheimer. Oppenheimer was fearless and outspoken. He had passed
unbroken through all their prison hells, and out of superior will

could beard them to their teeth. Morrell rapped me a full account
of the incident. I was unconscious in the jacket at the time.

"Warden," Oppenheimer had said, "you've bitten off more than you can
chew. It ain't a case of killing Standing. It's a case of killing

three men, for as sure as you kill him, sooner or later Morrell and
I will get the word out and what you have done will be known from

one end of California to the other. You've got your choice. You've
either got to let up on Standing or kill all three of us.

Standing's got your goat. So have I. So has Morrell. You are a
stinking coward, and you haven't got the back-bone and guts to carry

out the dirty butcher's work you'd like to do."
Oppenheimer got a hundred hours in the jacket for it, and, when he

was unlaced, spat in the Warden's face and received a second hundred
hours on end. When he was unlaced this time, the Warden was careful

not to be in solitary. That he was shaken by Oppenheimer's words
there is no doubt.

But it was Doctor Jackson who was the arch-fiend. To him I was a
novelty, and he was ever eager to see how much more I could stand

before I broke.
"He can stand twenty days off the bat," he bragged to the Warden in

my presence.
"You are conservative," I broke in. "I can stand forty days.

Pshaw! I can stand a hundred when such as you administer it." And,
remembering my sea-cuny's patience of forty years' waiting ere I got

my hands on Chong Mong-ju's gullet, I added: "You prison curs, you
don't know what a man is. You think a man is made in your own

cowardly images. Behold, I am a man. You are feeblings. I am your
master. You can't bring a squeal out of me. You think it

remarkable, for you know how easily you would squeal."
Oh, I abused them, called them sons of toads, hell's scullions,

slime of the pit. For I was above them, beyond them. They were
slaves. I was free spirit. My flesh only lay pent there in

solitary. I was not pent. I had mastered the flesh, and the
spaciousness of time was mine to wander in, while my poor flesh, not

even suffering, lay in the little death in the jacket.
Much of my adventures I rapped to my two comrades. Morrell

believed, for he had himself tasted the little death. But
Oppenheimer, enraptured with my tales, remained a sceptic to the

end. His regret was naive, and at times really pathetic, in that I
had devoted my life to the science of agriculture instead of to

fiction writing.
"But, man," I reasoned with him, "what do I know of myself about

this Cho-Sen? I am able to identify it with what is to-day called
Korea, and that is about all. That is as far as my reading goes.

For instance, how possibly, out of my present life's experience,
could I know anything about kimchi? Yet I know kimchi. It is a

sort of sauerkraut. When it is spoiled it stinks to heaven. I tell
you, when I was Adam Strang, I ate kimchi thousands of times. I

know good kimchi, bad kimchi, rotten kimchi. I know the best kimchi
is made by the women of Wosan. Now how do I know that? It is not

in the content of my mind, Darrell Standing's mind. It is in the
content of Adam Strang's mind, who, through various births and

deaths, bequeathed his experiences to me, Darrell Standing, along
with the rest of the experiences of those various other lives that

intervened. Don't you see, Jake? That is how men come to be, to
grow, how spirit develops."

"Aw, come off," he rapped back with the quick imperative knuckles I
knew so well. "Listen to your uncle talk now. I am Jake

Oppenheimer. I always have been Jake Oppenheimer. No other guy is
in my makings. What I know I know as Jake Oppenheimer. Now what do

I know? I'll tell you one thing. I know kimchi. Kimchi is a sort
of sauerkraut made in a country that used to be called Cho-Sen. The

women of Wosan make the best kimchi, and when kimchi is spoiled it
stinks to heaven. You keep out of this, Ed. Wait till I tie the

professor up.
"Now, professor, how do I know all this stuff about kimchi? It is

not in the content of my mind."
"But it is," I exulted. "I put it there."

"All right, old boss. Then who put it into your mind?"
"Adam Strang."

"Not on your tintype. Adam Strang is a pipe-dream. You read it
somewhere."

"Never," I averred. "The little I read of Korea was the war
correspondence at the time of the Japanese-Russian War."

"Do you remember all you read?" Oppenheimer queried.
"No."

"Some you forget?"
"Yes, but--"

"That's all, thank you," he interrupted, in the manner of a lawyer
abruptly concluding a cross-examination after having extracted a

fatal admission from a witness.
It was impossible to convince Oppenheimer of my sincerity. He

insisted that I was making it up as I went along, although he
applauded what he called my "to-be-continued-in-our-next," and, at

the times they were resting me up from the jacket, was continually
begging and urging me to run off a few more chapters.

"Now, professor, cut out that high-brow stuff," he would interrupt
Ed Morrell's and my metaphysical discussions, "and tell us more

about the ki-sang and the cunies. And, say, while you're about it,
tell us what happened to the Lady Om when that rough-neck husband of

hers choked the old geezer and croaked."
How often have I said that form perishes. Let me repeat. Form

perishes. Matter has no memory. Spirit only remembers, as here, in
prison cells, after the centuries, knowledge of the Lady Om and

Chong Mong-ju persisted in my mind, was conveyed by me into Jake
Oppenheimer's mind, and by him was reconveyed into my mind in the

argot and jargon of the West. And now I have conveyed it into your
mind, my reader. Try to eliminate it from your mind. You cannot.

As long as you live what I have told will tenant your mind. Mind?
There is nothing permanent but mind. Matter fluxes, crystallizes,

and fluxes again, and forms are never repeated. Forms disintegrate
into the eternal nothingness from which there is no return. Form is

apparitional and passes, as passed the physical forms of the Lady Om
and Chong Mong-ju. But the memory of them remains, shall always

remain as long as spirit endures, and spirit is indestructible.
"One thing sticks out as big as a house," was Oppenheimer's final

criticism of my Adam Strang adventure. "And that is that you've
done more hanging around Chinatown dumps and hop-joints than was

good for a respectable college professor. Evil communications, you
know. I guess that's what brought you here."

Before I return to my adventures I am compelled to tell one
remarkableincident that occurred in solitary. It is remarkable in

two ways. It shows the astounding mental power of that child of the
gutters, Jake Oppenheimer; and it is in itself convincing proof of

the verity of my experiences when in the jacket coma.
"Say, professor," Oppenheimer tapped to me one day. "When you was

spieling that Adam Strang yarn, I remember you mentioned playing
chess with that royal souse of an emperor's brother. Now is that

chess like our kind of chess?"
Of course I had to reply that I did not know, that I did not

remember the details after I returned to my normal state. And of
course he laughed good-naturedly at what he called my foolery. Yet