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 Phoebe, 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.

"Don't look any younger," he thought, "but I feel so." He walked across
the room once or twice.

"Shucks!" he exclaimed. "Couldn't expect to look younger in these old
duds, an' at this time o' night, too--tired like I am."

For some time he walked up and down, keeping his eyes resolutely from
the date indicator. Finally he threw himself down in the chair again and
closed his eyes, nervous and exhausted. He did not feel sleepy, but he
must have dozed, for the next time he looked at the clock it was
half-past one.

He put out the light and crossed to a settle. Here he lay at full length
courting sleep. When he awoke, he thought, refreshed and alert, he would
show his youth unmistakably.

But sleep would not return. He tried every position, every trick for
propitiating Morpheus. All in vain.

At length he rose again and turned on the light. It was two-fifteen.
This time he could not resist looking at the date indicator.

It said September 30, 1889.

Again he looked into the glass.

"My, but I'm nervous!" he thought as he turned away, disappointed. "I
look older than ever!"

As he paced the floor there all alone, he began to doubt for the first
time the success of his plan.

"It _must_ wo