bed before you remembered, and that's all you'd want. It's the getting
out of bed that's so difficult. If you were once out, you wouldn't
want to get back again."

"Oh, shouldn't I?" said Chapple.

"Well, you might want to, but you'd have the sense not to do it."

"It's not a bad idea," said Chapple. "Thanks."

That night he took his Waterbury, prised open the face with a
pocket-knife as if he were opening an oyster, put the minute hand
on exactly half an hour, and retired to bed satisfied. There was
going to be no nonsense about it this time.

I am sorry to disappoint the reader, but facts are facts, and I must
not tamper with them. It is, therefore, my duty to state, however
reluctantly, that Chapple was not in time for breakfast on the
following morning. He woke at seven o'clock, when the hands of
the watch pointed to seven-thirty. Primed with virtuous resolutions,
he was just about to leap from his couch, when his memory began to
work, and he recollected that he had still an hour. Punctuality, he
felt, was an excellent thing, a noble virtue, in fact, but it was no
good overdoing it. He could give himself at least another half hour.
So he dozed off. He woke again with something of a start. He seemed
to feel that he had been asleep for a considerable time. But no. A
glance at the watch showed the hands pointing to twenty-five to eight.
Twenty-five minutes more. He had a good long doze this time. Then,
feeling that now he really must be getting up, he looked once more
at the watch, and rubbed his eyes. It was still twenty-five to eight.