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The New accelerator
“   By H. G. Wells   ”

"We went out by his gate into the road, and there we made a minute examination of the statuesque passing traffic. The top of the wheels and some of the legs of the horses of this char-a-banc, the end of the whip-lash and the lower jaw of the conductor—who was just beginning to yawn—were perceptibly in motion, but all the rest of the lumbering conveyance seemed still. And quite noiseless except for a faint rattling that came from one man's throat!"

It is enough to say in commendation of this very exciting story that it is worthy of the author. H. G. Wells has achieved a wonderful reputation in the field of serious writing as well as of fiction. Here for the entertainment of the reader we present a scientific story by him, the hero of which story is a physiologist and chemist. And now we deal with the science of the human system and are told the story of a wonderful ahievement which must be read in detail to be appreciated. Mr. Wells' matter is not only vivid and even valuable, but there is a picturesqueness about his language which attracts, as it is distinctively the English of the mother country.

ertainly, if ever a man found a guinea when he was looking for a pin it is my good friend Professor Gibberne. I have heard before of investigators shooting the mark, but never quite to the extent that he has done. He has really, this time at any rate, without any touch of exaggeration in the phrase, found something to revolutionize human life. And that when he was simply seeking an all-round nervous stimulant to bring languid people up to the stresses of these pushful days. I have tasted the stuff now several times, and I cannot do better than describe the effect the thing had on me. That there are astonishing experiences in store for all in search of new sensations will become apparent enough.

Professor Gibberne, as many people know, is my neighbor in Folkestone. Unless my memory plays me a trick, his portrait at various ages has already appeared in various magazines, but I am unable to look it up, because I have lent my volume to someone who has never sent it back. The reader may, perhaps, recall the high forehead and the singularly long black eyebrows that give such a Mephistophelian touch to his face. He occupies one of those pleasant little detached houses in the mixed style that make the western end of the Upper Sandgate Road so interesting. His is the one with the Flemish gables and portico, and it is in the little room with the mullioned bay window that he works when he is down here, and in which of an evening we have so often smoked and talked together. He is a mighty jester, but, besides, he likes to talk to me about his

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