Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury Page A

lady, opened the front-porch screen and went in. The screen door did not slam.
    Douglas had caught the screen and was following silently.
    Charlie walked across the enclosed porch, knocked, and opened the inside door. They all peered down a long dark hall toward a room that was lit like an undersea grotto, soft green, dim, and watery.
    â€œColonel Freeleigh?”
    Silence.
    â€œHe don’t hear so good,” whispered Charlie. “But he told me to just come on in and yell. Colonel! ”
    The only answer was the dust sifting down and around the spiral stairwell from above. Then there was a faint stir in that undersea chamber at the far end of the hall.
    They moved carefully along and peered into a room which contained but two pieces of furniture—an old man and a chair. They resembled each other, both so thin you could see just how they had been put together, ball and socket, sinew and joint. The rest of the room was raw floor boards, naked walls and ceiling, and vast quantities of silent air.
    â€œHe looks dead,” whispered Douglas.
    â€œNo, he’s just thinking up new places to travel to,” said Charlie, very proud and quiet. “Colonel?”
    One of the pieces of brown furniture moved and it was the colonel, blinking around, focusing, and smiling a wild and toothless smile. “Charlie!”
    â€œColonel, Doug and John here came to—”
    â€œWelcome, boys; sit down, sit down!”
    The boys sat, uneasily, on the floor.
    â€œBut where’s the—” said Douglas. Charlie jabbed his ribs quickly.
    â€œWhere’s the what?” asked Colonel Freeleigh.
    â€œWhere’s the point in us talking, he means.” Charlie grimaced at Douglas, then smiled at the old man. “We got nothing to say. Colonel, you say something.”
    â€œBeware, Charlie, old men only lie in wait for people to ask them to talk. Then they rattle on like a rusty elevator wheezing up a shaft.”
    â€œChing Ling Soo,” suggested Charlie casually.
    â€œEh?” said the colonel.
    â€œBoston,” Charlie prompted, “1910.”
    â€œBoston, 1910 …” The colonel frowned. “Why, Ching Ling Soo, of course!”
    â€œYes, sir, Colonel.”
    â€œLet me see, now …” The colonel’s voice murmured, it drifted away on serene lake waters. “Let me see …”
    The boys waited.
    Colonel Freeleigh closed his eyes.
    â€œOctober first, 1910, a calm cool fine autumn night, the Boston Variety Theatre, yes, there it is. Full house, all waiting. Orchestra, fanfare, curtain! Ching Ling Soo, the great Oriental Magician! There he is, on stage! And there I am, front row center! ‘The Bullet Trick!’ he cries. ‘Volunteers!’ The man next to me goes up. ‘Examine the rifle!’ says Ching. ‘Mark the bullet!’ says he. ‘Now, fire this marked bullet from this rifle, using my face for a target, and,’ says Ching, ‘at the far end of the stage I will catch the bullet in my teeth !’”
    Colonel Freeleigh took a deep breath and paused.
    Douglas was staring at him, half puzzled, half in awe. John Huff and Charlie were completely lost. Now the old man went on, his head and body frozen, only his lips moving.
    â€œâ€˜Ready, aim, fire!’ cries Ching Ling Soo. Bang! The rifle cracks. Bang! Ching Ling Soo shrieks, he staggers, he falls, his face all red. Pandemonium. Audience on its feet. Something wrong with the rifle. ‘Dead,’ someone says. And they’re right. Dead. Horrible, horrible … I’ll always remember … his face a mask of red, the curtain coming down fast and the women weeping … 1910 … Boston … Variety Theatre … poor man …”
    Colonel Freeleigh slowly opened his eyes.
    â€œBoy, Colonel,” said Charlie, “that was fine. Now how about Pawnee Bill?”
    â€œPawnee Bill …? ”
    â€œAnd the time you was on the