"You're a frightful sceptic, George. It's through living in London all your life. A dull, blasé place! . . . Lot of noise and bustle—and talk—but nothing ever happens!"
He puffed away at his pipe for a few moments, and then resumed, with the air of some politician portraying a world which needs reforming: "All that's got to be changed. Humanity in the mass moves very slowly. If you want things done, you must rely on the individual who can elbow his way out of the rut." He gazed at me with inspiration in his eyes.
"George," he said quietly. "I believe I'm one of those individuals. Already, I'm the first man to travel backwards through life. There was that convict they experimented on in America, of course, but one never heard any more of him. Possibly he died. In any case he was only sixty or so. I was ninety-five. . . ."
"Was . . . ?" I murmured.
He chuckled.
"How old am I now?" He stood up and smote his chest. "How old do I look and feel?"
"About forty-five, I should say."
"Not a day older! Not a day. . . . Well, that's the first step away from the rut. Then there's this—the greatest of all. Treasure hunting in aeroplanes!"
"Where? And what?" I asked, involuntarily—knowing full well that he was gloating over my curiosity.
He waited awhile before he continued.