Page:The Strand Magazine (Volume 5).djvu/103



nineteenth century was ancient history, when one day, in a breathless, hurrying world, a busy City man was borne electrically home to his suburban villa one hundred miles from the City.

He was tired and morose, and a settled worry clouded his face.

"What is it to-day, John?" asked his wife. "Done nothing again?"

"Nothing," replied the City the man, wearily. "Absolutely nothing. Got up at seven—hurried like mad over dressing and breakfast, and managed to get through them by ten, and rush to town—got to town at twelve thirty, and sat down to write one short letter—finished that by two—saw Brown about the cargo, and said a few words to him by four-thirty—read a telegram and two letters, fast as I could read, by five-thirty—gave instructions, about twenty words, to chief clerk by seven—dashed home again like lightning, and now it's nearly ten! My dear, this can't go on! The day is over before one has time to breathe! There is no time for anything. It's all very well to say we live a hundred years now against the seventy of a thousand years ago; but I'm convinced the years have grown shorter. Why—just fancy, Maria when I was a boy we used to have time between sunrise and sunset to write out one hundred and fifty lines of Virgil, or row three miles on the river. Why, I saw in a very old newspaper in the Museum lately, that an athlete could once run a mile on the cinder path in four minutes seventeen seconds; and it can't be done now by a champion under twenty-five minutes! Halloa here's the carrier brought that curious old water-clock I bought at the antiquity shop yesterday... You see those faint lines inside? They were to mark the hours—hours, though—no! I'm sure the water would never drip through that little hole fast enough to sink one of those measurements in an hour. Let's try... Halloa! While I've been talking it's got to one o'clock a.m.; and we haven't had time for dinner today—I mean yesterday. Maria! this can't go on! It's killing!"