Read Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) Online
Authors: Travelers In Time
Two
a.m
.
The
heart
should
now
be
at
its
slowest.
Poor
old
thing, having
to
put
in
some
overheats,
when
it
should
be
on
its
half
time. Mr.
Bradegar
was
sensibly
concerned—not
alarmed—about
his
heart. "Guest
and
companion
of
my
clay,"
he
quoted
again;
a
little
more sadly
and
secularly
this
time;
for
sixty
years
beating
away
to
get
him enough
energy—to
be
born,
to
fight
at
school,
row
himself
blind
at college,
pull
himself,
for
a
dozen
seasons,
to
the
top
of
two
score Alpine
"first-class"
peaks,
and
leap
down
the
throats
of
"the
opposing attorney"
and
his
witnesses,
day
after
day,
for
half
a
lifetime.
It
was a
reputable
record
for
a
soft
piece
of
sinew
which
has
to
be
as
precise as
the
best
clockwork
and
as
ready
as
a
rattler.
He
must
give
it
a chance.
That
is
what
Wilkinshaw,
the
big
heart
man,
had
said.
"Give it
a
chance"—and
give
me
a
hundred
dollars
for
asking
you
to
do what
you
intend!
Easy
job,
these
big
doctors;
easier
than
ours
in
the courts.
I'd
never
have
been
able
to
pay
to
ask
him
to
disapprove
of the
pace
I've
had
to
live
at
if
I
hadn't
worked
harder
than
he
ever had
to
work.
"Give
it
a
chance!"
I
never
could
let
my
heart
or
anyone else
have
a
chance
till
I
was
over
fifty.
Heart
and
head,
lungs
and
liver, kidneys
and
skin,
all
had
to
stand
the
racket,
or
give
if
they
couldn't.
That
was
why
he
was
alone.
Mabel
wouldn't
stand
for
it,
nor
the
two
girls.
They
sided
with
their
mother.
Girls
usually
don't.
One
of
them
nearly
always
likes
her
father.
But
both
went
with
Mabel.
"Men-
tal
cruelty!"
If
all
day
you've
been
getting
their
living,
and
they
wanted
a
lot,
by
watching
like
a
pike
to
see
if
the
other
fellow
couldn't
be
snapped
up,
you
couldn't
turn
off
the
trick
when
you
came
home.
You'd
got
into
the
way
of
striking
as
quickly,
as
surely,
as
automatically
as
a
sidewinder.
Well,
they
wouldn't
stand
for
it.
So
here
he
was
now
with
his
heart
to
watch,
and
nothing
else.
He'd
done
well
and,
he'd
hoped,
as
soon
as
he
was
through
with
getting
on,
he'd
get
liked.
He'd
do
the
things—he'd
have
time—that
get
you
liked:
the
big,
generous
things
with
which
the
big,
easy,
famous
men
convince
everyone,
every-
one
who
now
wants
to
forget
that
they
were
ever
small,
keen,
mean.
They're
formidable
still,
of
course,
but
in
such
a
grand
way.
They
just
go
on
getting
their
way,
but
with
no
more
than
an
inflection
of
the
voice—they
don't
have
so
much
as
to
raise
a
finger
any
longer.
The
old
proverbial
success
of
success.
But—"Where
are
the
monuments
of
those
who
were
drowned?"
"Nothing
succeeds
like
succession:
nothing
suc-
ceeds
like
surcease."
The
phrase
"declined"
itself,
as
one
used
to
say
of
verbs
in
school
grammar
lessons.
.
.
.
He
was
trying
to
memorize
the
whole
conjugation.
There
was
only
a
little
time.
The
clock
above
the
desks
showed
that
the
preparation
hour
was
nearly
over.
He
had
learned
all
the
other
irregular
verbs
but
this
silly
one:
"Success,
suc-
cession,
surcease
---
"
How
did
the
rest
of
it
go?
"Success,
succession,