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only a biscuit and some fruit. He was strangely uncomfortable all the evening. He said he supposed he missed his game of whist, and decided to look for a quiet, respectable club. At eleven he went to bed, but could not sleep. He tossed and turned, and turned and tossed, but grew only more and more energetic. A little after midnight he decided to go and wish the children good-night. The opening of the door awoke them, and he was glad. He wrapped them up in the blanket, sat on the edge of the bed, told them religious stories till one o'clock.

      Then he kissed them, told them to be good and to go to sleep; and found himself painfully hungry. He went downstairs, where in the kitchen he made a meal of cold pie and cucumber.

      He went to bed feeling more peaceful, but still could not sleep, so he lay thinking about his business affairs till five, when he fell asleep.

      At one o'clock to the minute[2] he awoke. His wife told him she had made everything to wake him earlier, but in vain. The man was  irritated. If he had not been a very good man, I believe he would have sworn. The same repeated as on the Thursday, and again he reached the City at three.

      This situation went on for a month. The man fought against himself, but was unable to change himself. Every afternoon at one he awoke. Every night at one he went down into the kitchen for food. Every morning at five he fell asleep.”

      4. The end of the editor's story

      “He could not understand it, nobody could understand it. His business suffered, and his health grew worse. He seemed to be living upside down[3]. His days didn't have a beginning or end, only the middle. There was no time for exercise or rest. When he began to feel cheerful and sociable[4] everybody was asleep.

      One day by chance the explanation came. His eldest daughter was preparing her home studies after dinner.

      'What time is it now in New York?' she asked.

      'New York,' said her father, 'let me see. It's just ten now, and there's a little over four and a half hours' difference. Oh, about half-past five in the afternoon.'

      'Then in Jefferson,' said the mother, 'it is earlier, isn't it?'

      'Yes,' replied the girl, 'Jefferson is nearly two degrees further west.'

      'Two degrees,' said the father, 'and there's forty minutes to a degree. That would make it now, at the present moment in Jefferson–'

      “He jumped up with a cry:

      'I've got it!' he shouted, 'I see it.'

      'See what?' asked his wife, alarmed.

      'It's four o'clock in Jefferson, and just time for my ride. That's what I want!'

      There was no doubt about it. For five-and-twenty years he lived by clockwork. But it was by Jefferson clockwork, not London clockwork. He had changed his longitude, but not himself.

      He examined the problem and decided that the only solution was for him to return to the order of his old life. He was too formed by habit to adapt himself to circumstances. Circumstances must adapt to him.

      He changed his office hours from three till ten. At ten he mounted his horse and went for a canter in the Row, and on very dark nights he carried a lantern. News of it got abroad, and crowds would gather to see him ride past.

      He dined at one o'clock in the morning, and after that went to his club. He tried to discover a quiet, respectable club where the members were willing to play whist till four in the morning, but failed and joined a small Soho club, where they taught him poker. The place was occasionally raided by the police, but thanks to his respectable appearance[5], he managed to escape.

      At half-past four he returned home, and woke up the family for evening prayers. At five he went to bed and slept like a top[6]. The only thing that really troubled him was loss of spiritual communion. At five o'clock on Sunday afternoons he felt he wanted to go to church, but had to do without it. At seven he ate his simple midday meal. At eleven he had tea and muffins, and at midnight he began to crave for hymns and sermons. At three he had a bread-and-cheese supper, and retired early at four a.m., feeling sad and unsatisfied.

      He was a man of habit.”

* * *

      We sat in silence.

      My friend stood up, took half-a-sovereign from his pocket, put it on the table and went out.

      The Ransom of Red Chief

      O. Henry

      1. A good idea

      It looked like a good idea, but wait till I tell you. We were in Alabama – Bill Driscoll and I – when this kidnapping idea came to us. It was, as Bill expressed it later, “during a moment of temporary mental apparition[7]”; but we didn't find that out until later.

      There was a town, as flat as a cake, and called Summit.

      We had six hundred dollars, and we needed just two thousand dollars more. We talked about it on the front steps of the hotel. They love children a lot in rural communities; because of this and for other reasons, a kidnapping project is better here than in the place where newspapers can send reporters to talk about such things. We knew that Summit couldn't get after us with anything stronger than constables and maybe some bloodhounds and one or two articles in the “Weekly Farmers' Budget”. So, it looked good.

      We selected for our victim the only child of a rich citizen named Ebenezer Dorset. The father was respectable. The kid was a boy of ten, with freckles, and hair the color of the cover of the magazine you buy when you are waiting for a train. Bill and I thought that Ebenezer could give a ransom of two thousand dollars. But wait till I tell you.

      About two miles from Summit was a little mountain with a cave. We stored provision there. One evening after sundown, we drove past old Dorset's house. The kid was in the street, throwing rocks at a kitten on the opposite fence.

      “Hey, little boy!” said Bill, “would you like to have a bag of candies and a nice ride?”

      The boy threw a stone into the Bill's eye.

      “That will cost the old man an extra five hundred dollars,” says Bill, climbing over the wheel.

      We got him down in the bottom of the carriage and drove away. We took him up to the cave. After dark I drove the carriage to the little village, three miles away, where we hired it, and walked back to the mountain.

      Bill was putting plaster over the scratches on his face. The boy was watching a pot of boiling coffee, with two feathers stuck in his red hair. He pointed a stick at me when I came up, and said:

      “Ha! Paleface, do you dare to enter the camp of Red Chief?”

      “We're playing Indians. I'm Old Hank, Red Chief's captive, and he is going to take my scalp!”, said Bill.

      Yes, sir, that boy was having fun. He forgot that he was a captive. He called me Snake-eye, the Spy, and announced that when his men returned from the warpath, they were going to burn me at the stake.

      Then we had supper; he filled his mouth with bacon and bread, and began to talk. He said something like this:

      “I like this. I never camped before; but I had a pet once, and I was nine last birthday. I hate to go to school. Rats ate up sixteen of Jimmy Talbot's aunt's hen's eggs. Are there any real Indians in these woods? I want some more meat. We had five puppies. What makes your nose so red, Hank? My father has lots of money. Are the stars hot? I whipped Ed Walker twice on Saturday. I don't like girls. Do oxen make any noise? Why are oranges round? Have you got beds to sleep on in this cave? Amos Murray has got six toes. A parrot can talk, but a monkey or a fish can't.”

      “Red Chief,” I said to the kid, “would you like to go home?”

      “Aw, what for?” said he. “I don't have any fun at home. I hate to go to school. I like to camp. You won't take me back home, Snake-eye?”

      “Not

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