“Dinner!” exclaimed Barry.
He looked at his watch, but found that he had neglected to wind it, and that consequently it had stopped.
“What time do you make it, waiter?”
“Half after six, sir.”
He decided that he would rise for dinner, 'phoned for a paper and his mail, and lay back between the sheets once more, striving to recapture that rapturous sense of welfare that had enwrapped him the night before. Luxuriating in this delightsome exercise, he glanced lazily at the heading of his paper, and then cried, as the paper boy was leaving the room,
“Hello! here, boy! what day is this?”
“Friday, sir,” said the boy, gazing at him in astonishment.
“Friday? Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir, Friday, sir. What does the paper say, sir?”
“Oh, yes, of course. All right.”