to be on our machines by six, and to break the back of our journey
before the heat of the day set in. Occasionally we might start a little
earlier, but not as a habit.

I myself was up that morning at five. This was earlier than I had
intended. I had said to myself on going to sleep, "Six o'clock, sharp!"

There are men I know who can wake themselves at any time to the minute.
They say to themselves literally, as they lay their heads upon the
pillow, "Four-thirty," "Four-forty-five," or "Five-fifteen," as the case
may be; and as the clock strikes they open their eyes. It is very
wonderful this; the more one dwells upon it, the greater the mystery
grows. Some Ego within us, acting quite independently of our conscious
self, must be capable of counting the hours while we sleep. Unaided by
clock or sun, or any other medium known to our five senses, it keeps
watch through the darkness. At the exact moment it whispers "Time!" and
we awake. The work of an old riverside fellow I once talked with called
him to be out of bed each morning half an hour before high tide. He told
me that never once had he overslept himself by a minute. Latterly, he
never even troubled to work out the tide for himself. He would lie down
tired, and sleep a dreamless sleep, and each morning at a different hour
this ghostly watchman, true as the tide itself, would silently call him.
Did the man's spirit haunt through the darkness the muddy river stairs;
or had it knowledge of the ways of Nature? Whatever the process, the man
himself was unconscious of it.

In my own case my inward watchman is, perhaps, somewhat out of practice.
He does his best; but he is over-anxious; he worries himself, and loses
count. I say to him, maybe, "Five-thirty, please;" and he wakes me with
a start at half-past two. I look at my watch. He suggests that,
perhaps, I forgot to wind it up. I put it to my ear; it is still going.
He thinks, maybe, something has happened to it; he is confident himself
it is half-past five, if not a little later. To satisfy him, I put on a
pair of slippers and go downstairs to inspect the dining-room clock. What
happens to a man when he wanders about the house in the middle of the
night, clad in a dressing-gown and a pair of slippers, there is no need
to recount; most men know by experience. Everything--especially
everything with a sharp corner--takes a cowardly delight in hitting him.
When you are wearing a pair of stout boots,