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, things get out of your way;
when you venture among furniture in woolwork slippers and no socks, it
comes at you and kicks you. I return to bed bad tempered, and refusing
to listen to his further absurd suggestion that all the clocks in the
house have entered into a conspiracy against me, take half an hour to get
to sleep again. From four to five he wakes me every ten minutes. I wish
I had never said a word to him about the thing. At five o'clock he goes
to sleep himself, worn out, and leaves it to the girl, who does it half
an hour later than usual.