It was so heavy that I wellnigh dropped it.  “All ri’!” said I, and he grinned at me through the cab window as the cabman flicked his horse into wakefulness.  It was a white packet he had given me, with red seals at either end and along its edge.  “If this isn’t money,” said I, “it’s platinum or lead.”

I stuck it with elaborate care into my pocket, and with a whirling brain walked home through the Regent Street loiterers and the dark back streets beyond Portland Road.  I remember the sensations of that walk very vividly, strange as they were.  I was still so far myself that I could notice my strange mental state, and wonder whether this stuff I had had was opium—­a drug beyond my experience.  It is hard now to describe the peculiarity of my mental strangeness—­mental doubling vaguely expresses it.  As I was walking up Regent Street I found in my mind a queer persuasion that it was Waterloo Station, and had an odd impulse to get into the Polytechnic as a man might get into a train.  I put a knuckle in my eye, and it was Regent Street.  How can I express it?  You see a skilful actor looking quietly at you, he pulls a grimace, and lo!—­another person.  Is it too extravagant if I tell you that it seemed to me as if Regent Street had, for the moment, done that?  Then, being persuaded it was Regent Street again, I was oddly muddled about some fantastic reminiscences that cropped up.  “Thirty years ago,” thought I, “it was here that I quarrelled with my brother.”  Then I burst out laughing, to the astonishment and encouragement of a group of night prowlers.  Thirty years ago I did not exist, and never in my life had I boasted a brother.  The stuff was surely liquid folly, for the poignant regret for that lost brother still clung to me.  Along Portland Road the madness took another turn.  I began to recall vanished shops, and to compare the street with what it used to be.  Confused, troubled thinking is comprehensible enough after the drink I had taken, but what puzzled me were these curiously vivid phantasm memories that had crept into my mind, and not only the memories that had crept in, but also the memories that had slipped out.  I stopped opposite Stevens’, the natural history dealer’s, and cudgelled my brains to think what he had to do with me.  A ’bus went by, and sounded exactly like the rumbling of a train.  I seemed to be dipping into some dark, remote pit for the recollection.  “Of course,” said I, at last, “he has promised me three frogs to-morrow.  Odd I should have forgotten.”

Do they still show children dissolving views?  In those I remember one view would begin like a faint ghost, and grow and oust another.  In just that way it seemed to me that a ghostly set of new sensations was struggling with those of my ordinary self.