The Manitowoc pilot. [volume] (Manitowoc, Wis.) 1859-1932, 1899-05-04
at his calculation, he completed ten OF

tueSe TeNOlullOnS d minute.
Upon one occasion the professor
called upon him, and Warren shouted:
Thief! thief! give me back my
watch,"
The old man retreated hastily, and
now the patient was visited by no one
but the servant, who contented himself
with knocking upon the door and leav-
ing the tray of food outside.
Warren was growing insane. He be-
gan to fear himself, but what he dreaded
most was the loss of time. To Warren
timew was deity, alternately worshiped,
entreated and feared.
Summer had passed without any Wis.,
ible change in his condition. His friends
were hopeful still, and the professor,
although reticent, expressed his belief
in the ultimate success of the rest cure.
Warren had become indifferent to
everything but his task. The walls OF
his room were defaced with knife cuts;
there remained only an inch of space
upon which to mark his interminable
hieroglyphics. Observing this, he be-
gan to argue with himself where he
might begin anew. He shook his head
sadly.
"Only an inch," he muttered.
Then he sprang up, and, seeing o
knife, began to work industriously.
One, two, three, then up to 60, then
60 again, and so on until the space was
completely covered. He was in despair.
Suddenly brilliant idea occurred to
him. He gathered up the rugs, rolled
them together and tossed them out of
the window. Then he began to cut
marks on the floor. Frequently weary
and bending, his knees callous, his
hands shaking, he would fall asleep.
and wake only to continue his task.
Day and night became alike to him.
Finally the floor was covered. What
was he to do now? AS the problem
confronted him the mailman wept tears
of despair. He sat for some time
crouched beneath window, then a
slow smile diffused itself over his face.
He tore away his sleeve, and, barring his
arm, pricked his skin with the point of
the knife He counted aloud as he did
so, while the blood trickled from the
wound. Then the mailman grew elated;
there would remain yet another arm,
after that the legs, finally the chest
His fingers were clotted with blood
as he worked eagerly, tattooing arms
and legs. In the silence of the room he
heard familiar sound. 1t resembled
the ticking of a clock. He paused twice
to listen. Yes, he was not mad; no one
could mistake the steady tick, tick"
A clock! He sprang to his feet the
knife Gathering upon the floor. A
clock! Where was it? He dashed about
the room. He could see nothing-the
clock was hidden. Still steadily sound
ed the stick, tick" Always at the same
distance, no nearer, no further.
He remembered watch that he had
carried when boy; silver gift watch
given him by his father.
He felt his pocket. Perhaps it was
there now. No, his pocket was empty.
He bent his head ever his left shoulder
listening intently. Then he cried aloud
in delight.
He had found the clock. 1t was there,
where his heart had once benin his
body, on the left side. How loud it
licked! He held his coat over it to
muff1e the sound that seemed to pene.
trate the walls. With his nails he dug
into the flesh, striving to tear from ii
the precious timepiece.
fTick, tick"
Heavens! How time was passing!
He struck his chest fercely. With the
movement he stepped backward. AS he
did so his foot struck something. He
looked down and saw the knife. Then
he was calm. Tick, tick" went the
clock, but the sound troubled him no
longer. In a moment he would see the
white dial, the black hands moving
slowly and that other hand that twirled
away the seconds. Once again he would
be master of time, not its slave.
He stopped and picked up the knife
It's edge was ragged where he had
forced it into the walls. He moved the
fingers of his right hand carefully along
his side, until he felt that they rested
directly above the clock.
"Tick, tick"
The point of the knife met the sound
and Silencad it-CbicaUo Times-Her.