He walked deliberately to the shutters, closed them and turned on the electric light. Surrounded thus by the wonted conditions of night, it was not long before he began to yawn. He removed his coat and shoes and lay back in an easy chair to meditate at ease. He faced toward the pole so that the "side weight" would tend to press him gently backward into his chair and therefore not annoy him by calling for constant opposing effort.
He soon dozed off and was whisked through a quick succession of fantastic dreams. Then he awoke suddenly, and as though someone had spoken to him. Listening intently, he only heard the low murmur of the machinery below and the ticking of the many clocks and indicators all about him.
He closed his eyes, intending to take up that last dream where he had been interrupted. He recollected that he had been on the very point of some delightful consummation, but just what it was he could not recall.
Sleep evaded him, however. His mind reverted to the all-important question of the recovered years. He began to plan again.
This time he should not make his former mistakes. No—he would not only make immense wealth promptly with the great inventions, he would give up liquor forever. It would be so easy in 1876, for he had never taken up the unfortunate habit until 1888.
Then—rich, young, sober, he would seek out a charming, rosy, good-natured girl—something of the type of Phœbe, for instance. They would be married and——
He got up at this and looked at the clock. It was after midnight. He looked at the date indicator. It said October 9, 1890.
"Well, come!" he thought. "The old Panchronicon is a steady vessel. She's keepin' right on."
He put on his shoes again, for something made him nervous and he wished to walk up and down.
The first thing he did after his shoes were donned was to gaze at himself in the mirror.