“‘What time is it now in New York?’ she asked, looking up from her geography book.
“‘New York,’ said her father, glancing at his watch, ‘let me see. It’s just ten now, and there’s a little over four and a half hours’ difference. Oh, about half-past five in the afternoon.’
“‘Then in Jefferson,’ said the mother, ‘it would be still earlier, wouldn’t it?’
“‘Yes,’ replied the girl, examining the map, ‘Jefferson is nearly two degrees further west.’
“‘Two degrees,’ mused the father, ‘and there’s forty minutes to a degree. That would make it now, at the present moment in Jefferson—’
He leaped to his feet with a cry:
“‘I’ve got it!’ he shouted, ‘I see it.’
“‘See what?’ asked his wife, alarmed.
“‘Why, it’s four o’clock in Jefferson, and just time for my ride. That’s what I’m wanting.’
“There could be no doubt about it. For five-and-twenty years he had lived by clockwork. But it was by Jefferson clockwork, not London clockwork. He had changed his longitude, but not himself. The habits of a quarter of a century were not to be shifted at the bidding of the sun.