The nineteenth century was ancient history, when one day, in a
breathless, hurrying world, a busy City man was borne electrically home
to his suburban villa one hundred miles from the City.
[Illustration: "They sat and smoked for two hours."]
He was tired and morose, and a settled worry clouded his face.
"What is it to-day, John?" asked his wife. "Done nothing again?"
[Illustration: "What is it to-day, John?"]
"Nothing," replied the City man, wearily. "Absolutely nothing. Got up at
seven--hurried like mad over dressing and breakfast, and managed to get
through them by ten, and rush to town--got to town at twelve-thirty, and
sat down to write one short letter--finished that by two--saw Brown
about the cargo, and said a few words to him by four-thirty--read a
telegram and two letters, fast as I could read, by five-thirty--gave
instructions, about twenty words, to chief clerk by seven--dashed home
again like lightning, and now it's nearly ten! My dear, this _can't_ go
on! The day is over before one has time to breathe! There is no time for
anything. It's all very well to say we live a hundred years now against
the seventy of a thousand years ago; but I'm convinced the years have
grown shorter. Why--just fancy, Maria--when I was a boy we used to have
time between sunrise and sunset to write out one hundred and fifty lines
of Virgil, or row three miles on the river. Why, I saw in a very old
newspaper in the Museum lately, that an athlete could once run a mile on
the cinder path in four minutes seventeen seconds; and it can't be done
now by a champion under twenty-five minutes! Halloa! here's the carrier
brought that curious old water-clock I bought at the antiquity shop
yesterday.... You see those faint lines inside? They were to mark the
hours--hours, though--no! I'm sure the water would never drip through
that little hole fast enough to sink one of those measurements in an
hour. Let's try.... Halloa! While I've been talking it's got to one
o'clock a.m.; and we haven't had time for dinner to-day--I mean
yesterday. Maria! this _can't_ go on! It's killing!"
Next Sunday the City man tried the water-clock, and it took five hours
and three-quarters for it to register an hour; so he had the hole at the
bottom made larger--of more than five times its former capacity; and it
registered the hours.
And the spirit of him that had fashioned it hovered ever about the
clock, waiting to speak what it knew; and its time was soon to come.
[Illustration: MONDAY MORNING]